


Antithesis

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aether-sex, Ascian, Because hate sex is best sex, Corruption, F/F, F/M, Femdom, Femslash, Hate Sex, Masturbation, Multi, Power Imbalance, Role Reversal, Self-cest, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5067454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When confronting the Warrior of Light in the Limitless Blue, Igeyorhm blunders. AU; a chronological series of five one-shots detailing the Warrior of Light's fall from servant, to Lesser Ascian, to Scion of Darkness.</p><p>Eventual sexual content; femslash and Ascian-styled threesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Martyr

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see by the tags, this story uses a female WoL for reasons that will become obvious in a chapter or two (the hint is in the title). I swear there's more to it than because it's easier to write intimacy when at least one of your characters has sexual characteristics.
> 
> Based around the Summoner questline's reveals about the traits of lesser Ascians, the ones with the black masks. If you are unfamiliar with these traits, I've outlined the relevant ones at the end of chapter notes. This story has nothing to do with the questline at all, so don't worry.
> 
> Finally, I know most people are aware of this, but I've seen a some confusion on the subject: Your character still retains the fully-powered Echo the entire time the Blessing is shrouded. Hence being able to understand Nabriales and fight the primals in 3.0.

Blue.

It is not the pale, warm blue of Hydaelyn, but a deep, dark, endless blue, only a shade above black. Through the depths you fall, blue surrounding and enveloping you, deeper, deeper, slowly sinking into nothing. It is a sea; force restricts your breast and lightens your head, crushing you underneath invisible weight. You need to breathe, but your instincts refuse to allow inhalation, as if you truly plummet through the waters of the abyss.

Pressure, hard, tight, overwhelming breaks through your chest, forcing out the remaining air in your lungs. You breathe in, but there is no air, there is nothing but blue void. Lungs unfulfilled, your body burns, cold and numb, commanding you to provide it sustenance, but there is nothing to give.

Deeper and deeper you fall, pressure, pain, heat, and the endless, serene depths make you want to scream, but you are incapable of sound.

Everything fades, blue blurring. You land, but there is nothing to rest on, your body hitting an invisible sea floor. The foggy, dark soil around you is disturbed by your touch, rising up and up, swirling and tainting the clear blue. The blue darkens, thickens, and all that remains of your sight and comprehension disappears, swallowed wholly into black nothingness.

You awaken slowly, muddled blue replaced by the clear black and grey moonlight that fills your Inn room in Gridania.

You run your hands over your body, dazed. Your rapid breaths continue, starved body believing itself deprived of oxygen, but nothing is wrong. The pressure on your chest remains, as the aftereffects of dreams often do, but your room is silent, the air is still, and your rest has not been disturbed.

There is something wrong. The pain that has plagued you for the last suns is gone. It is a sorry state of affairs when you have come to expect the heavy ache that stiffened your movement and slowed your reactions, but the timing of your liberation cannot be coincidental. The sense of wrongness remains at the back of your mind, present, but impossible to describe. You recognize its presence, like the emptiness within when Midgardsormr cut you from Hydaelyn, yet you can discern nothing solid that has changed.

You push yourself off the bed, completely awake, intense pressure fading. Sleep is elusive now, there is no point in trying. You’ll get no more this night. You strip off sweat-soaked nightclothes and replace them with attire casual enough that you’ll feel the chill bite of the Shroud’s night air.

The Inn’s hallways are blessedly empty, though stray voices echo from the common room. Fending off the excited queries of novice adventurers does not sound particularly appealing and you hope that they will not recognize you from the shadows. Too much subtlety will get you noticed as easily as too little; you keep your head high and move normally, so that you do not draw attention to yourself. The few stray adventurers do not even bother to look at you - novice indeed – their discussion uninterrupted by your passage.

You wander aimlessly through the silent streets. You seek only to move, somewhere, anywhere, a nagging, persistent itch that demands you find _something_. It’s as if you lost an item you were holding a moment earlier; the back of your mind _knows_ where you should go to search, but you’ve forgotten and you’ll recognize your destination when you see it.

The sense of need is only amplified by the Shroud’s overwhelming aether. You are not prone to aether sickness - Hydaelyn help you if you were, you wouldn’t have made it nearly so far - but the constantly flowing thickness over your flesh is distracting and distantly painful. It amplifies your senses, so that each night bird’s call pierces through your head and every insect’s screech sets you on edge as thoroughly as the clank of armored footfalls from behind might. For the first time, you understand why a newcomer might be uncomfortable in this place.

From New Gridania to Old, the aether becomes thicker still. There are fewer guards and no citizens in the empty fields or walking the paths. Your pace quickens as the desire becomes more persistent, as if you’re late for an appointment and must immediately find what you’re searching for.

The nagging finally ceases when you reach Apkallu Falls, the empty, peaceful cove perhaps even more beautiful and relaxing at night than during the day. The loud, constantly flowing of the water pushes down the sound of shrieking insects, the Falls providing you with the first taste of relaxation since you awakened.

Your chest heaves from your breaths; you did not realize how quickly you were moving in the strange desperation. Only now that you’ve reached your goal do you recognize how unnatural the force willing you to find it was. Something must have -

“So falls the first Scion, a tale older than time itself.” The voice rings just in front of you. The unsurprising form of an Ascian manifests itself, levitating just above the waters.

“You’re. . .“ Facing the strange woman, you hesitate. She is hostless, but you’re unsure how you know or recognize it, as you’ve only encountered her once before. You do not even know her name, but you feel as if you’d recognize her presence from any distance, in any mass of bodies. It is intensely uncomfortable, as if you know her better than you know yourself.

The Ascian does not continue or respond, but stares at you in silence. You return her stare, the woman’s presence becoming more prominent as each moment passes. You feel smaller and smaller, she larger and larger.

“I am Igeyorhm.” The Ascian finally announces, as if she’s made her decision. The considerations that caused her hesitation are beyond you. “To you I am ‘Master.’”

Arrogance seems to be a universal trait among Ascians, perhaps rightfully so, but Igeyorhm’s declaration is shocking and well beyond what is expected from the others you’ve encountered. To pronounce herself as your ally would be insanity, but to claim she is your ‘master’ is utterly absurd; were the situation any different, you might have laughed, but to your bafflement, the Ascian remains neutral, entirely serious.

“You’re mad.” You spurn her.

You know immediately that she disapproves of your criticism; without any external manipulation of aether, she penetrates the depths of your mind, so intensely that she can almost control you **.** You do not know how to expel her and the vulnerability you feel at her presence is far more severe than when she held your body at her mocking mercy before Thordan. The Ascian could tear you apart from the inside if she willed it, without effort.

And yet, she causes no pain, nor does she directly manipulate you. Instinctual revulsion and the need to reaffirm your independence and internal security are overwhelming, but the Ascian does not harm you. It is your weakness and inability to remove the threat that drive you to the ground before the lapping, cool water, like a small child curling up to escape from a nightmare.

“I desire our situation no more than you do, but His laws are absolute” Her tone remains clear and neutral, unaffected by your struggle against her.

The woman’s intrusion is nothing like the ceaseless pressure from your nightmare. You can breathe, you can speak, you can move, but it’s a challenge to think or form words. “I don’t understand.” You rasp, continuing to do anything you can to push her from you, lashing out in every way you know how, with aether and without, like an infant futilely struggling against its parent in attempt to continue playing. The Ascian pushes back, denying you, and you feel the bile rise in your throat from the depths of her invasion. “What is it that you want?”

At your question, the woman abruptly halts, withdrawing entirely.

Vulnerability alleviated, you lift yourself to your knees, looking at the Ascian in time to see her lips tighten. Igeyorhm’s emotions are impossible to discern behind the mask, in the neutral, Hyur-like form she wears, but she expresses them easily in her tone, words breathy and resigned. She is not annoyed at your ignorance, but nor is she entirely pleased.

“Upon your uplifting, you became my responsibility.” The Ascian elaborates, as if it explains everything.

You do not know what an ‘uplifting’ is, none of the Ascians have spoken of it before, but you mislike its implications. Igeyorhm recognizes your confusion from the frown that crosses your features. Infinitely patient, the woman continues as if explaining proper and improper behavior to a toddler who should know better.

“In my haste, I was careless. Hydaelyn is fragile; my intention was to debilitate Her over time, but you foolishly took my spell upon yourself.” Despite the implied irritation, Igeyorhm’s tone is not disapproving. “An unprotected mortal form, no matter how tempered, cannot withstand our magic for long. Even the most resilient succumb eventually.”

The Ascian seems to be complimenting you, in her own way. She has a roundabout way of speaking and you are unsure if she is intentionally vague or mistakenly believes herself blunt, but it seems that she has admitted to being the cause of your recent discomfort - until it ceased upon your awakening this evening.

You refuse to allow your thoughts to continue further down that path; the lack of pain and its implications lead to only the darkest depths.

But nag at you they do, as persistent and unrestrained as that call that summoned you to this place. The whispers force themselves to the forefront of your traitorous mind, regardless of your will.

You could not withstand the Ascian’s curse with your weakened Blessing.

You no longer feel the pain of it because you were ‘uplifted.’

You’re alive and unharmed and – there is something wrong, missing –

You protected Hydaelyn, but you _died._

“I am whole.” You refuse quickly, denial coursing through you. Everything Igeyorhm implies becomes clear and you reject it all.

Lacking condescension, Igeyorhm tolerantly responds, seemingly well-versed in managing stubbornness. **“** There are many things you do not yet understand, that you must learn and unlearn; what experience does not teach you, I will.” The Ascian is taking what she believes to be her responsibility seriously and seeks to guide you.

“I won’t -” You open your mouth, but the refusal does not form on your tongue.

What hinders your speech is different from Igeyorhm’s earlier invasion. It is a subtle compulsion, one that guides you to not wish to speak at all.

To your abject horror, you understand.

In your service to Hydaelyn, Her will was imposed upon you with equal subtlety. Though capable of rejecting it, there is a gentle compulsion to serve, a sense that it was completely illogical to do otherwise. If you overcame that and acted with apathy to her desires, you doubtless would have lost Her favor and the Blessing.

No longer is it Her will you must fulfill. The compulsion manifests itself similarly, subtle, gentle, and by a far greater power than Igeyorhm’s. Paired with the force the woman exerted over you, it becomes immediately and immensely clear that there is no alternative: you must serve and abide by the laws and rules of an incomprehensible master.

You feel ill. You’d sooner die than realize the desires of a dark God of chaos.

Yet a permanent death driven by fear solves nothing. Hiding and running are pointless; you’re a creature of action, not one to stand to the side when change is imminent. You cannot be a martyr; there are too many others who need you to live – others who have given their lives or their freedom so that you may create a better future.

You must accept this curse. You must bear the burden for your companions, living and fallen, so that the damage is minimized, to help their dreams of peace become reality. There must be a way to do so.

What horrifies you most is not your solid, delayed nod to Igeyorhm, acknowledging your submission to her will, but the understanding that the rationalization that led you to do so may not be entirely your own, logic silently manipulated by the will of the God you seek to impede.

“To gain understanding, to experience your new position, to right the wrongs you have committed against our cause, you will whisper for me.” She continues as if your hesitation did not occur, though she undoubtedly recognizes your struggle. “You previously used your influence to soothe and calm, but no longer will you interfere. Whisper to their fears; to their instability. Build on their insecurities and prejudice; there must be uprising, there must terror. Ishgard must be absorbed by its faith.”

Her directive is terrifying in a way that facing down the most dangerous foes can never be. It is against everything you once stood for. You’ve been an impenetrable beacon of hope to the people, but now the beacon’s light must dim and intentionally mislead. As a symbol of stability, any fear and uncertainty you show will bring forth nothing but chaos. The woman who is your master is a formidable creature indeed; she recognizes the flaws of mortal dependence far too thoroughly for your comfort.

However, it is a flexible request, a command you can work with and mold in a way that will cause the least harm. If she wishes the people of Ishgard to be faithful, you will see to it that they are more faithful in the Fury than they have ever been. The other steps will be used sparingly, if at all.

It is curious; Halone is unlikely to be summoned, so the amplification of the Ishgardian faith is a strange role to place you in. You must consider the matter in the future, but for now you’ve other, more pressing queries, such as the limits placed on your freedom.

“You’re not worried that I’ll confide in my companions or allow them to interfere?” It is unnecessary for Igeyorhm to know, but you’ve no intention of having any discussion about your death; the curse of the Echo is impossible to put into words.

“No; they are no longer your companions. The fetters that bind master and servant prevent you from acting in away that hinders our purpose, as you’ve experienced.” Her answer is vague and you are certain there is a way around the rule she is not telling you. Elidibus approached the Scions in peace; though the Emissary serves a greater master, you assume he is bound by the same rules.

It seems plausible that Igeyorhm wishes for you to discover how to manipulate the rule for yourself, by requiring that you twist your logic and thoughts, justifying your actions. You accept her challenge.

“Perform your role well and you may continue your games with the mortals if it pleases you, but you must do nothing to endanger your host – its flesh is fragile and bound to this plane only by your essence. That form has prominence; I would not have you reveal your true nature so quickly.”

The statement is disgusting and demented; she casually speaks of _your body_ and how is to be used and discarded. Repulsion prevents you from forming a reply, even if you knew what to say.

“Do you understand my expectations? _His_ expectations?” In emphasis, Igeyorhm invades you again, but differently, more distantly, with cool, deep, icy aether, like you have been dropped into a frigid river in Coerthas. It does not wipe away the revulsion that fills you, but distracts you from it.

With the unspoken threat, Igeyorhm secures her position of strength. No matter how much you struggle, you are her inferior, her servant.

“I do.” It is sobering to feel so powerless.

At your concession, Igeyorhm relinquishes her control. The harsh aether immediately softens, rigid ice replaced by the cooling, gentle flakes of snow in the wind. The residue of her presence somehow warms you as much as it cools, alarmingly pleasant.

“Before you leave for your duty, whisperer, I’ve one more lesson.” She speaks offhandedly; Igeyorhm’s mind is already elsewhere, but her responsibility to you bids her to remain. “The aetheryte mortals manipulate will no longer respond to you. To travel, withdraw into yourself.”

It has quickly become apparent that what you and Igeyorhm consider ”teaching” and “lessons” are very different things; you begin to suspect that she is intentionally difficult, so that you must embrace your condition and experiment.

“Go now, Ishgard awaits.” She commands silently as she fades into the darkness, orders branded into you, forming in your thoughts from a will distinctly not your own.

Alone in the night, released from Igeyorhm judging, controlling presence, you falter. Standing becomes difficult, despite the energy that pours through you, and your breaths are heavy and erratic; you wonder if you even need to breathe, or if you simply act out your emotions in a familiar way, for self-comfort.

Your return to the Inn is almost unconscious. Time is blurred and dulled; the sounds of the wildlife that earlier distracted you are numbed and easily ignored, your senses focused inward. Gridania’s night remains as peaceful as ever; even the novices in the common room have retired for the evening and no one interferes with your passage.

Tataru’s presence in the hallway outside your room is all that rouses you from the overbearing haze. The Lalafell is up far too late into the night; you do not know how to respond to her abundant energy, but you make an effort to try.

“Are you well?” Tataru’s worry is genuine. She sees the best in all people; if the woman inquires on your wellness, you must truly look abysmal.

No, no you’re not well. You’re far from well, but the words you wish to speak do not form when you look to her. Standing closely, blocking the moonlight from the window, your shadow should cloak the Lalafell, but she remains as illuminated as when you first entered, the final, devastating confirmation of the fate you’ve tried to reject.

Tataru does not notice.

“I couldn’t sleep.” It is not a lie, but it might well be one. You force a weak smile onto your lips, one that does not reach your eyes.

If the woman recognizes the feeble, failure of an attempt at concealing your worries, she ignores it, for your sake. “Of course, I’m excited too, but you don’t want to greet Y’shtola with a yawn on your lips. So go back to your room!”

A truer smile forms now, a tired expression that strains your muscles. For Tataru, nothing has changed. You would have it remain that way.

You press your eyes closed in silent apology. “There’s been an emergency.” Twisting the truth around the sweet Lalafell is challenging; it pierces the vulnerable armor surrounding your heart. “I must return to the Foundation tonight. Please give Y’shtola my best; you know how to reach me.”

This is for the good of all, you tell yourself, living and dead, mortal and immortal, Eorzea and Hydaelyn. For them, you will bear these lies, this duty - this existence.

You gently push past Tataru and into your room, ignoring her confused outcry, locking the door behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to lesser Ascians:  
> The lesser, black-masked Ascians are only capable of possessing the dead and must do so in order to continue their existence. If there is not a dead body nearby when their old host dies, they're destroyed permanently. They seem to have been raised or 'uplifted' to their position by the red-masked Ascian Overlords. The lesser Ascians are loyal and bound to their Overlords.
> 
> The Warrior of Light's situation is a bit different, but the same laws that apply to other lesser Ascians apply here.


	2. Abyssal Celebrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there is one thing the former-Warrior of Light knows, it is duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mention 12th Chalice in this chapter. He's not an OC, but one of Lahabrea's higher ranked servants from the SMN questline. Again, nothing spoilery at all, since I just mention he exists.
> 
> Regarding the timeline:  
> Imagine the type of XIV player who does not rush the MSQ, getting distracted by other things, such as playing with friends and crafting while the world is in danger. This is similar to what's going on here; the MSQ events are slowly happening in the background, but they're delayed and occur much more slowly than if you rushed them, due to how our former-Warrior is bound to other responsibilities.  
> The relatively large passage of time between chapters is why I'm considering this a set of one-shots rather than a full-blown story.

It is a dreamless sleep, if the state can be considered sleep at all.

You are capable of some form of serene rest, a numbing and distracting respite of nothingness that draws you from the realm of mortals and into yourself, away from the laws that require your action, troubling thoughts, appalling actions, and the smothering force of your aether digging into your broken flesh.

It is too early to know if this void-like sleep, and the comfort you derive from it, is a lasting phenomenon or if it occurs because you recently ended up in this state and must adjust to being restricted by a material form rather than existing solely within one, but you intend to continue using it, the blissful silence a welcome reprieve from the world of chaos that continually besieges you.

You dream in a dreamless existence, a dream that is not a dream. Voices that are not mortal, heard without the ears of your body, whisper from within, a dull, muted echo that slithers through your mind. Foreign thoughts inject themselves into you consciousness, forming more from concepts than words; you’ve come to recognize the manner of speech as characteristic of communication between the bonded, as when Igeyorhm speaks to you, master and servant.

The sounds interrupting your sleep are more of a curiosity than an annoyance, as are many things in your changed state, and you attempt to draw closer, actively manipulating the void rather than allowing it to passively and heavily build around you. Even as you draw close to the source of the interruption, the meaning of the words remains out of your range of comprehension, obscured behind what seems to be a thick, infinitely tall, hazy wall that refuses to allow any entry or exit.

Driven by curiosity, you push at the barrier. What you are attempting is dangerous, but you are certain the voices have some connection to you, else you would not have been able to hear them when withdrawn into your most private, secluded state, one that is otherwise impossible to interfere with.

Alarmingly, the fog parts almost willingly, not just accepting your presence, but assimilating it. The aether- it’s Igeyorhm, you recognize her now that the haze has cleared - draws around you, easing into any cracks and entombing you more effectively than the Lord of Crags. She fills the gaps within you as you simultaneously fill the gaps within her, flowing opposite and equal, unified and constant, any natural erraticism leveled off, as if the troughs between waves have filled and the pounding on the beach is constant and enduring, relentless.

The balance is abnormal and should not be possible at all; you are connected to Igeyorhm, but not _this_ connected.

Focused as you are on your master, you only belatedly recognize the second power, more distant, outside, not a part of Igeyorhm. It’s a light pressure, like a gentle drizzle, barely pressing into the shared essence, stroking teasingly, like a fingernail drawn over bare thighs. The touch is warm but far from sensitive; it teases only to expose and take advantage of a moment of weakness.

You definitely should not be feeling this. You did not even know it was possible to partake in such intimacy any longer. If you had a physical form, you’d be blushing at the inappropriate intrusion.

The flustered emotions are finally strong enough to alert Igeyorhm to your presence, but neither of you are strong enough to break the connection between you and interrupt equilibrium. The external force continues its touch, smothering over both you and Igeyorhm, each burning caress melting you as much as her, shared and amplified.

“Lahabrea, stop. My servant. . .?” Igeyorhm’s words, no longer obscured by the barrier, are abrupt as she assesses the situation. She does not speak in the unfettered tone you are familiar with, but uncharacteristically softly, emotions tainted by both your presence and contact with of the presence you now recognize as Lahabrea.

Lahabrea pauses, but his foreign touch does not withdraw. A moment of consideration is all it takes for him to begin anew, but not with the same teasing, playful strokes. He probes in search of the intruder; though you certainly have no interest in speaking to Lahabrea, you know of no method of avoidance while within in this merging with Igyeorhm and can do nothing but allow his presence to wash over you, distinguishing servant from master.

“What is yours is mine.” He finally speaks, lacking hostility even as he declares his intent to subjugate you. With only that simple warning, Lahabrea’s game progresses, using a different touch before. He forces himself between the tiniest cracks that differentiate you and Igeyorhm, a piercing hard insertion, seemingly intent on creating a wedge so that you are more easily influenced. Somehow able to distinguish between fused essences, Lahabrea focuses entirely on you, his presence an irremovable heavy, smothering blanket covering you during midday in Southern Thanalan.

Lahabrea’s manipulation is foreign and, compared to Igeyorhm’s, distant and external. An assault from the outside is defensible, so long as your master does not aid or interfere, but even buffered by Igeyorhm’s presence, Lahabrea is overwhelming, drawing from power far older and more developed than you. All that stops you from being at his utter mercy is his inability to bend your mind from within.

Facing Lahabrea’s relentless force of will, you understand how fortunate you are that it is Igeyorhm who is your master; you could have just as easily been bound under Lahabrea, standing beside his many servants, had fate willed it and you encountered him in the Limitless Blue. You would doubtless be a prize for the male, a victory over the loathed Warrior of Light, reminding you of what was lost at any opportunity.

You push as hard against him as he pushes against you, struggling until the connection between you and Igeyorhm finally strains, ripping apart; neutral as she remains, your bond to her was all that kept you afloat in a turbulent sea. So close to victory, Lahabrea strikes, imposing his influence upon you, so that he can share control over Igeyorhm’s sole servant.

You submitted only to Igeyorhm when you changed; you will not submit again.

No matter how willful you may be, there is nothing you can do but flee. All that connects you to Lahabrea is your presence within Igeyorhm; before he is able to overwhelm you, you hastily draw away from Igeyorhm, through that hazy, foggy barrier and back into the safety of your body, where Lahabrea cannot touch or break you.

You open your eyes, alert but calm; the Inn room is just as peaceful as when you relaxed and entered your sleep-like state.

You push yourself up, breathing in the brisk air of the early morning, sky still black and chill still pleasantly harsh in your lungs. The cold on your flesh is distant, body insulated by your aether; though it would be taxing, you could walk through the Highlands in the nude and not so much as break out in goosepimples, had you the desire to. Such is the benefit of your body being a walking corpse, animated and whole only through your presence within.

You barely react to the morbid reality any longer; it is an utter, disdainful truth learned through experience within the first week of changing.

You clothe yourself with agonizing lethargy, preparing for the off chance that Lahabrea will approach you in attempt to finish what he started. You would sooner deal with Lahabrea in the safety of your room than a public place and so wait you do, until well after the sun’s light is visible through your closed window shades. The male never comes, leaving you to your business as if the encounter never occurred.

There is no point in waiting around any longer, you are impatient, filled to the brim with energy, and lounging about worrying when you could be acting is unlike you. Without any more delays, you leave the Inn, prepared for your distasteful duty.

Every sun it is the same dance, the only changes are in your partner. A cautious attempt at consolation, eyes closed, filled with remorse and hesitation, a long, pained breath emphasizing slow and guarded words, emotions universally understood by all who witness them. Without fail you perform this gentle waltz, practiced until its choreography is invisible and all meaningful speech occurs without words. Any words you happen to speak exist only to supplement your goals.

You would like to believe that you are not past remorse, regardless of how adept you’ve become at your role, but if nothing else you are efficient. You know not to let emotions interfere, just as you cannot stop to consider every soldier or brigand who once stood before you, struck down for impeding your goal.

“The Fury will protect us.” You speak quietly to a fearful young woman, barely out of puberty. Her beauty is marred by the Brume’s grime, hair unwashed and matted, clothed in nothing but a thick burlap sack. Even impoverished, Ishgardians are cautious creatures, prone to xenophobia; you must work with them on individual bases, treating each person as if they are more important than all others.

Your duty should be simple, building the influence of a religion that the public has lost faith in, but often reality does not follow ‘woulds’ and ‘shoulds.’ The people are wary of you; they see the Warrior of Light, the one who aided Aymeric in exposing the Holy See as the fraud it was. Though many are willing to believe your words, you appear inconsistent, frequently contradicting earlier beliefs and denouncing revelations you earlier supported. You draw not only hesitation and unwillingness to trust, but excess caution, as if you are incapable of keeping to your word.

Challenging the nature of mortal trust as you are, it is amazing that you remain so successful.

“You didn’t strike me as a follower of the Faith.” Hilda’s voice, loud and confident, accented heavily through her upbringing, calls from the distance. The young girl you were speaking with departs quickly, seemingly fearful of your companion. It is an odd reaction from the child, one that worries you.

“These are trying times. For your goal, this instability may be beneficial, a sign of change. For the vulnerable, it helps to have a strong force to lean upon.” It is unlike you to be so grandiloquent; you suppose Chalice’s claim was true - the traits of the master influence the traits of the servant.

“Nor did you strike me as the type to openly express your insecurities.” The woman stands in front of you, crossing her arms over her chest, her mouth set in a deep frown. She continues, her voice saturated in feigned sweetness. “The oddest thing happened last night. A little bird sang a revealing song to me.”

Your breath catches; you hesitate, mind working rapidly in attempt to discern her meaning.

There is only one person who knows. Chalice, it must have been that fool Chalice. You warned him not to toy with Hilda; she is far too willful to control and, as someone you respect, you did not wish to see her involved. To Chalice, Hilda’s desire for liberation and equality – and her ability to make that dream become reality by her own hands – makes her ideal for furthering the chaos and instability in Ishgard. It also directly undermines your purpose of strengthening the remains of the Holy See.

“And you trust this bird?” You worry for her; Chalice is the last person Hilda should believe.

Your orders have come into conflict with Lahabrea’s servant in the past; where Igeyorhm commands you rebuild Ishgard’s faith, Chalice has been assigned a role that is almost entirely opposite. While your duties are intended to be complimentary, he is to spread of fear and paranoia, which corrals the citizens deeper into their faith, Chalice is impatient and easily distracted, often forgetting the purpose he was assigned in attempt to more thoroughly sow chaos for his master.

“Only after witnessing the truth.” Hilda drops the pretense of kindness, her tone rigid but brittle, body language disgusted and hostile. “You are cold, Warrior of Light. Your touch is gentle, your voice soft, but you are harsher than the Highlands. I suppose trusting you is my own mistake; regardless of your history and capabilities, only the most apathetic foreigner could charm the nobility and commons both as quickly as you did, without blinking an eye at their injustices.”

Her passionate condemnation ends in frustration and silence; in a rare show of emotion, Hilda’s eyes tear, more out of regret and bitterness than sadness. You know that anything you say will add to the severity of her beliefs, denial or acknowledgement; it is best to let her immediately exhaust her anger, so that productive discussion is possible later, when she calms.

It pains you to have a comrade know about your manipulations. Worse still, you know the strategy Chalice employs; like you, he appeals to previously-held insecurities, building paranoia. Without the thoughts already budding within her, Hilda would not have succumbed to Chalice’s temptation. You did not expect the other woman to harbor such negative thoughts about your presence in Ishgard; the revelation hurts.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” Hilda’s tone precariously balances between mere annoyance at your stoic response and infuriated desperation, seeking justification for her beliefs.

“Your mind seems to be made up.” There is nothing you can do for now; even if you can no longer protect her, you can still warn her and trust in her ability to make rational decisions. “Be wary of your little bird, Hilda, he is prone to biting when displeased.”

You turn from Hilda, as you’ve turned from everyone. You will continue to struggle for your friends to the best of your abilities, but it is beneficial to them all that you keep your distance. Only the Scions remain by your side now and, if Y’shtola continues her queries on the flow of your aether and Alphinaud presses for explanations of your constant delays, you may need to turn from them, as well.

Though it hurts, you’ve no time for worry; Chalice is impatient and plays a dangerous game, precariously skirting a cliff face, a small gust of wind ready to blow him aside. If Hilda acts brashly, she will undo everything you’ve worked for, intentionally drawing the trust of the commons from you.

Chalice seems to be intentionally hindering you. It is one thing to meddle, it is another entirely to purposely prevent an ally from fulfilling their responsibilities, hindering both Lahabrea’s and your master’s plans at once – and yours, as well. Chalice must be acting on his own and you will not tolerate it.

There’s only one way to stop Chalice short of outright confronting him. It is not something you do lightly, but for Hilda – for any of your companions - you will accept the risk.

You paste a smile on your face and offer everyone you recognize a pleasant greeting as you push through the crowded streets to return to your room. You’re erratic, jumpy and writhing inside the body you call home, fearful and nervous.

Locking the door behind you, you passively stand, attempting to moderate your emotions before you begin. Theoretically, calling Lahabrea should be no different than summoning Igeyorhm, coming into direct contact and temporarily imprinting your desire into her, leaving a trail to your location. After your unfortunate, firsthand experience with Lahabrea, his aether remains almost burned into you. Locating him will not be difficult; your apprehension rises more from Lahabrea’s reaction to you than the method used in contacting him.

There is nothing to question; no matter how unpleasant, what must be done will be done. Habitually, you close your eyes.

Your journey ends almost as quickly as it started. Remnants of aether remain intentionally congregated in select places and locating a specific individual, even within an infinite void, is barely a search at all. Lahabrea makes no attempt to conceal his presence, he almost exaggerates it; it comes as no surprise, he has many servants that must contact him often. With a trace, distant touch you summon him, as confident as you can be in your wariness.

The response is instantaneous, Lahabrea’s reaction containing none of the restraint that Igeyorhm is prone to, appearing a moment later in the center of your room.

There is nothing but silence - cold, pregnant stillness tainted by moons of grudges and unfinished affairs. Lahabrea stares at you as intently as you stare at him, lips pressed together, clearly displeased that _you_ , of all people, have the knowledge to call upon him.

Neither you nor Lahabrea are outright antagonistic and no attempts are made to conceal your mutual discomfort. It is strangely unified between you, an unspoken acceptance that neither of you are pleased with the situation, yet must come to an understanding, regardless.

In her rare moments of benevolence, Igeyorhm teaches that there are traditions you must follow, no different from the formal greetings and respectful pleasantries you grew up with, but she rarely elaborates beyond what is required between master and servant, choosing instead to stress His absolute laws. Doubtless, knowing more would have been beneficial when summoning Lahabrea, as he makes no attempt to communicate, the awkwardness continually building. It is an unfamiliar formality, as Igeyorhm tells you she is to speak first, but you can only assume that you are expected to voice your desire and begin the negotiation.

“I would ask that you control your servant. Chalice.” The request sounds far more neutral and confident than you feel; the words are stiff on your tongue, leaving your throat almost unwillingly, despite your earlier determination to confront the man.

“It is odd that you approach me.” Lahabrea, too, keeps his tone neutral, but openly expresses confusion in his words. “Chalice has performed his role flawlessly, what reason do I have to trust and aid you while hindering him?”

Perhaps you did not think this summoning through well enough; you were far too hasty and irrational, driven by Hilda’s powerful emotions. You did not consider this particular path of questioning, but Lahabrea has the right of it; he has no reason to trust you. There is only one option.

“You will trust me because you trust Igeyorhm.” You respond boldly, perhaps too much so, but it is the only reasoning that stands to convince him. You cannot claim to understand his relationship with Igeyorhm, but after your earlier experience, you are certain they are close enough that this risk will end in your favor.

Lahabrea lapses into silence, eyes boring into you with a glare that you cannot see, but know is there. Behind his mask, the man remains as unreadable as ever, but somehow, everything changed when you named Igeyorhm. It is not anger, but –

Lahabrea steps forward, so near to you that his presence can only be described as inappropriate, no matter the standards of judgement. With barely any distance separating you, your aether touches as closely as your bodies and the differences between your states, between Lesser and Lord, are undeniable, visible even to the blindest beggar **.**

You do not pull away from him, refusing to be intimidated by the show of power. “Remove yourself.”

It starts without warning, intentionally contrary, the same intense, overwhelming pressure you experienced when you were resting. Lahabrea is not destructive, as pain and death are not his goal, rather, he seeks assimilation and subjugation. It immediately forces stray thoughts and musings away; any fears and hesitations are banished, secondary to self-preservation.

His touch is raw, shrouding, and enveloping. Unable to break you during that strange fusion with Igeyorhm, Lahabrea recognizes the necessity of a different approach. His new strategy is searing, as if he attempts to separate and melt you, so that he may absorb you entirely, imposing his will on the parts so that overpowers the whole, reforming and molding what remains to his wishes.

Without Igeyorhm to confound him, your resistance has all of the effect on Lahabrea that a tossed pebble may have against a Garlean's breastplate. You futilely struggle, regardless, hoping that he remains equally incapable of breaking you, clawing against a greater beast with your dull, broken nails.

Collapse is inevitable; you cannot stymie a flood with unwoven wool for long. Lahabrea breaks through the natural barriers surrounding you, greeted with the same instinctual revulsion Igeyorhm instigated your first night beside her. You recoil at the foreign presence, a bitter, festering poison, and against your will you withdraw from your body in a panicked attempt at fleeing. Without another host nearby it is a pointless, irrational action that risks your existence. Your desperation is constrained by instincts that command you to return immediately, before you can even fully leave, powerful enough that you do not even consider denying them. In your body, you are nothing but a splinter trapped within a larger hand; Lahabrea digs, following, probing, and it is only a matter of time before he encapsulates all of you.

Simultaneously rapid and still, like watching the chaos of a chocobo accident in the middle of town, he locates his prize, tainting your core with an almost gentle caress. Slowly, ever so slowly, Lahabrea revels in his victory, savoring your weakness, finally defeating the hated foe who humiliated and banished him.

No, you will not submit. Not to him. _Never_ to him.

You are swallowed by Lahabrea as you are simultaneously swallowed by darkness.

Turbulent dizziness grips you; the foreign presence inside you is confusing, your host reacting as violently as you are, retching in absolute rejection. As if protecting you, the darkness that is not Lahabrea grasps you, viscous, sticking to every part of you, like a thick, unavoidable muddy tar. It draws you more than you draw it, leading, guiding you to an overwhelming strength you never have encountered, let alone wielded, even blessed by the strongest of Light.

The darkness teaches without words, thoughts forming instantly within your essence against your will, memories that are not yours absorbed as if you’ve experienced them firsthand. They show you the way to mold the strange power, not entirely unlike how Hydaelyn once gifted you an image of the Blade of Light. Aided by pure desperation and the foreign strength, you reject Lahabrea with brutal force, almost tearing yourself apart in the process.

Energy expended, you gasp, falling to your knees. Lahabrea, too, reforms, no longer unacceptably close as he stares intently at you, reverting to the earlier oppressive silence; he does not show weakness, but you recognize he was harmed by your resistance almost as much as you were.

You should not have been able to do that, you know it, Lahabrea knows it; this is not some child’s tale where a miracle burst of power rescues you at the last possible moment. You are lesser, young, inexperienced, and weaker by nature than Lahabrea, an ageless master. Perhaps in the future, you may meet him as an equal, truly wielding the strength you just exhibited, but for now you recognize your inferiority.

There is only one explanation, the one you are hesitant to acknowledge. Divine intervention has saved you in the past, with Hydaelyn as your shield. You have been relegated to a lower servant, but nonetheless you are Gifted and, through that, Igeyorhm claims you are one of His favored. He offers you strength, a weapon of unparalleled power, devastating enough to banish the far greater being that sought to claim you.

You are unsettled at receiving His aid, but it is a gift that is impossible to return; you have already accepted it. He would not have you broken by Lahabrea; you belong only to Him.

“So that is why Igeyorhm made no mention of you.” Lahabrea speaks, cutting short your musing. Even in your exhaustion you understand the implication of his words; he did not know of your situation, your role. Igeyorhm has kept you hidden, the others unaware that you were an ally. Lahabrea laughs, quiet and to himself, a strange and eerie sound. “Elidibus will not hinder us now.”

You cannot know what to say to that, choosing instead to say nothing. You do not wish to draw Elidibus’ attentions.

“Very well.” Lahabrea continues, when his laughter finally ceases. “Tell me of Chalice.”

His mood seems to have improved and he shifts from caution to confidence; Lahabrea has been defeated by you once again, failing in his goal to control what is little more than a child, but in the end he claims utter victory. Hydaelyn’s champion has fallen, prostrated in a moment of weakness on the floor before him, politely requesting that Lahabrea monitor his servant so that Igeyorhm’s goals may be realized.

If you had not already seared the remains of your shame during the first moon after your death, you would be saturated by it now.

It is a morose thought, one that delays your reply until you’ve regained some proper semblance of strength and control. When you finally speak, you are pleased when you are able to muster half of your earlier confidence, finally breaching the topic you summoned Lahabrea for. “In his haste, Chalice intentionally interferes; we lack in coordination.”

“Or perhaps you act too slowly and Chalice compensates.” Lahabrea intentionally provokes you, seeking to gain as much knowledge over a foreign situation as he can. You know his strategy.

Even recognizing he seeks a reaction, your anger rises. You will not take that from him; he can be as much of a fool as he likes with his plans, but you serve Igeyorhm. Ishgard is under her as much as it is Lahabrea; you may not agree with their goals, but if there is one thing you understand, it is responsibility. You will do your duty to the very end, protecting as many people as you can in the process, and you refuse to allow Lahabrea’s clod of a servant to impede you.

Your annoyance grows. Already you do the impossible; you mend what _you_ broke and Lahabrea has the gall to tell you to _be faster_ about it? Already you stall your companions, earning extra time so that his plans with Igeyorhm proceed smoothly. Already you have _succeeded_ and would have continued to do so were it not for Chalice.

“I would not say he acts in haste when for every yalm forward I am pushed three back by his irresponsibility!”

You bite out with vehemence.

Lahabrea makes no attempt to hide his surprise at your outburst; you are are almost as alarmed as him at your passionate reaction, emotions as foreign to you as they are to Lahabrea.

“The fault is mine.” A voice you know well sounds from behind. Unknown to you, some point after arriving Lahabrea summoned Igeyorhm; you know not when she arrived, but you are certain it was only recently, after Lahabrea’s failure. “I did not consider a conflict in their orders.” She continues, her presence and cool demeanor seemingly dissipating any remaining frustration, balancing the more impassioned emotions that embrace you and Lahabrea.

Lahabrea turns his attention from you and deliberately focuses on Igeyorhm as he considers her words. You, too, consider, questioning her decisions; you see no benefit she would receive from concealing you, though you are thankful she has.

Chalice seems to have made the assumption you did, that Lahabrea knew of you, else he would have reported to his master the first time your purposes clashed.

“She will aid us.” Even commanding you, Lahabrea does not turn from Igeyorhm, remaining in a silent, wordless conversation that can only be held by partners who have known each other for untold eras.

“She serves, as do we.” Igeyorhm confirms with a nod.

You unwillingly draw upon a brief flash of memory at her words; the pressure of Igeyorhm from within, as you writhe on the ground before her, Gridiania’s chill air burning in your lungs. The same command Lahabrea tried and failed to exert upon you. Igeyorhm tolerates no less than utter loyalty from a servant and you have seen to it to give her no reason to distrust you, even as you pursue your own goals.

“As you will it. I will see to it that Chalice does not interfere.” His admission of your victory is somehow both bitter and satisfied, as there remains no hostility or resentment in his tone. Without Igeyorhm’s presence, you doubt he would have agreed so readily.

Without another word Lahabrea leaves; there is no final glare, no sneering hatred, no hostile touch to you, but a simple, silent teleportation, as if the air between you has somehow cleared. Grudges may remain, but they can be put aside for a greater purpose.

As soon as you are alone with your master, she addresses you, but not with the expected admonishment; Igeyorhm seems almost amused that you went to Lahabrea before her. “Not often is Lahabrea caught off guard, nor was I expecting you to approach him so readily after his attempt at binding you.”

She smiles, a satisfied, haughty expression that does not match her calm demeanor as she continues, drawing as close to you as Lahabrea did. “You are quite proficient at embodying the unknown. It pleases me that you have come to embrace your role, whisperer.” Her touch on you is far more passive than Lahabrea’s, dizzying and uncomfortable, a blending rather than an absorption. It’s unnatural to share aether so closely and you simultaneously want to draw away and draw closer, to learn why such a thing is possible between you.

In the strange state, perhaps aided by Igeyorhm’s words and your proximity to her will, you understand, the revelation as clear as if you read it from a missive on the table.

You went to Lahabrea on your own accord; you were given no orders by Igeyorhm save to manage Ishgard, not how to do so, and you were certainly not assigned to speak with her companion to better your position. She waited for you to willingly come into your role, joining the others without her influence.

You withdraw in horror.

It is in this moment, satisfied at your victory over Lahabrea, no longer commanded into action by the icy, pragmatic essence of your master, but by your own desires, that you have truly become an Ascian.


	3. The Whisperer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with eternity, whispers of the lost haunt the Warrior of Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm earning my E rating in this smaller-scale chapter. It's not terribly kinky and I'd consider it more of a healthy, vanilla, normal sexual relationship. I'm saving my kink for later.

Whatever you once thought of Igeyorhm, as a master and as an individual, the last weeks have proven you utterly mistaken; relentless and stubborn, Igeyorhm is as overbearing as her male companion when she chooses to be. Your master comes to you every sun, visiting for bells at a time without explanation, dulling your senses and paralyzing you, preventing your aether’s flow throughout your body, like an herb might block the pain of a wound. Standing beside you as you lie incapacitated on your small bed, she molds you, guiding you toward an invisible destination within yourself that you are never quite able to reach.

Despite her forcefulness, Igeyorhm is not cruel as she teaches you the meditation, a focused internal resonance, concentrated withdrawal from all else, requiring you bring order to the innate, uncontrolled turbulence that makes up an essence.  It has taken time, but you have finally learned to will yourself into stillness around a point, to reach the level of control she wishes you to command. Such small steps do not satisfy your master and she continues pushing, demanding infinitely more from you.

This day is no different; your focus is intense and thorough until you can no longer feel, until you are little more than free-floating energy contained within a shell, exhausted beyond thought, unable to do anything beyond passively viewing memories and experiencing emotions of the suns, moons, and years past.

Igeyorhm whispers something quietly, coldly, a winter’s wind that smothers your campfire and interrupts your only chance at rest. As if changing her strategy, impatient, she pushes at you again, but rather than the subdued instruction she has previously employed, Igeyorhm instead embraces you from all sides.

You are cramped and compacted, slowly being smashed, enclosed within a prison that intentionally smothers you, breaking you apart. The immediate horror of the sensation clears your thoughts, as much as is possible in your weakness, drawing you instantly from your reverie.

You probe the boundary for vulnerabilities, feeling very much like you are locked within a slowly flooding room, the space between the water and the roof becoming smaller and smaller with each passing moment. Igeyorhm is the water to your body, drowning you, encasing you in frigid aether.

There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to escape, but further in and in, as Igeyorhm grasps more tightly. You cannot withdraw and you are too weak to fight back. You are crushed by your master until you can concentrate no further, unable to hold onto the black, featureless world of your own making without breaking.

Yet try you do, until it all snaps, despair bursting like a dam from you, the explosion painful and hot, instantly immolating the sheet of ice. There is no pain this time; the rejection is not at all foreign, the dark power of your God entirely absent. The wave of searing energy dismisses Igeyorhm in a way entirely unlike how you rejected Lahabrea.

Your senses do not return immediately, even with Igeyorhm no longer blocking the flowing passages that allow you to control your body. Breaths are instinctual to focus on as you recover, a more natural meditation than the aether-based struggle your master imposes on you.

The first sound you hear when your body finally responds is satisfied laughter. When Igeyorhm recognizes your attentions are focused on her, she speaks, elaborating on her amusement. “Lahabrea was correct; your instinct to survive is second to none. I should have heeded him sooner.”

The room is far too bright, Igeyorhm’s voice far too loud, as if you have unintentionally emphasized your senses with aether. You press your eyes closed, attempting regulation, but there is nothing to regulate. Your aether is distant from your senses, from your flesh, instead you are centered, moving and influencing with only the slightest light touch. The change is against everything you’ve learned; for your body to remain whole you must be present everywhere, not simply anchored in its core with the barest tendrils seeping into your extremities.

You almost reel from the revelation, understanding what is off.

You cannot expose it, you can do no more than run your aether over it, invisible and hidden as it is. The new crystal is too tiny, too fragile, nothing but a pulsing stone the size of a pebble, but it is, perhaps, the most important pebble you’ve ever possessed. It is nothing like the gifts from Hydaelyn, manifesting when earned, this is _you_ , a crystal of concentrated aether forced into existence in a moment of desperation. You could create another if you knew how; perhaps a crystal’s creation will become easier on subsequent attempts.

 _This_ was Igeyorhm’s elusive, unspoken goal, the development of this diminutive gift.

“You did this.” Your emotions are mixed, denying yourself even capable of manifesting such a priceless object so early in your time as an immortal, but your words are accusatory. You are curious, yet cautious; she has some purpose, some unspoken intention to aiding you in the birth of your dark crystal.  

“I have always been but a guide, if you did not want this –“ She sits beside you on the bed, one of very few times she has relinquished the position of control that she gains from standing above you, and places a hand softly on your breast above your heart, where she once pierced you with her curse, beginning the chain of events that led to your servitude. “-you would not have succeeded. For you, becoming His chosen is neither fate nor destiny.”

Open and talkative, you recognize Igeyorhm is pleased, her hand moving from its place over your host’s heart, drawing her fingers over your collarbone, brushing, almost tickling, the fragile flesh at the base of your neck until you shiver and turn your face away. She strokes your cheek with the back of her hand, up to your temple and down your chin, the ridges on her gloves making her fingers drag, tempting you like the movement of a cool chain necklace over hot flesh, as she continues. “The crystal is not a gift; you have created it of your own power and demanded He acknowledge you.”

You did not feel Him when you created the crystal, but He still sees, fallen as He is; as Father to a new child, He has watched, protecting and guiding you with a firm hand. You are no longer alarmed by His authority over most aspects of your life.

Igeyorhm takes your silence as acceptance, looking down upon you, continuing her affectionate, distracting strokes over your face and neck as you consider her words.

Your master has no reason to lie; she devoted many weeks to your crystal’s formation, but it is odd that she speaks as if some great change has come upon you, that with His acknowledgement you’ve become a different being. There is nothing indicating any differences within you; you’re no stronger or more skilled than you were the sun before last, any greater control you’ve gained over yourself is from your focused meditation, not from the crystal’s presence. You do not have a stronger, clearer connection to Zodiark, as Hydaelyn’s crystals once gave you to Her; Igeyorhm’s essence remains deeply inside you, still master to your servant.

Igeyorhm would not have pushed for this as hard as she did, commanding you halt all of your other duties if there was not some benefit to be gained from this change. It is not surprising that Igeyorhm seeks to continue using you; Igeyorhm has been open, speaking freely of her goals with Lahabrea and having you further them. It only baffles you that they chose this ascension so quickly, knowing your history, when Chalice and the others remain unchanged, loyal dogs that they are, struggling for even the simplest acknowledgement.

“Why now?” You speak your thoughts firmly, finally composed, the remnants of your earlier weakness fading. The timing seems too coincidental; if the creation of a crystal simply required focus and His attention, Igeyorhm could have aided you in creating it sooner – or later, or not at all, if she chose.

“There is no better time.” She is close now, leaning so near that her breaths warm your face, quiet words blowing your hair to the side. “Everything is in place; you have shown your devotion and soon will welcome Him into the new world by my side.”

You are not surprised; she has made no attempt to hide it. Igeyorhm does not seek the one-way worship Lahabrea demands of his servants. With her free arm, she presses you down so that you are completely below her.

You jolt at the energy in Igeyorhm’s lips; formed of aether as her flesh is, each touch between you is an expanding, immediate merging of essence, as if you’ve dipped your toe into a frigid lake and your entire foot cools in response. Her kiss is a silent question, awaiting confirmation of your acceptance.

It is the first true contact you’ve had with another’s flesh since you were uplifted. Touching others – mortals – is uncomfortable; you taste them unconsciously, like the resonance of the Echo. With Igeyorhm, with your people, touch is communication; it expresses emotion, command - lust. Igeyorhm’s touch is more than the simple manipulation of energy; it is cool and soft, embodying emotions you no longer believed could be directed towards you.

She is close, so close; her proximity blends your aether and hers, a cool chill that warms, as ice is wont to melt when in contact with warm water. Temperate water is transferred back to her for cooling, aether tainted with your essence, a cycle of mutual desire.

You have existed within a prison of your own making, fearful of harming others, worrying that you betray your dreams and hopes with every word. Igeyorhm has been your only companion in your darkness, promoting your growth with questions and subtle answers, opening doors that were previously barred closed. It is only when faced with the decision to reject her, that you realize how deeply Igeyorhm has become a part of your life.

Eternity alone in a Void of hostile allies is a very long time, indeed.

It is an odd thing, this game of justification you play, as if there is some crime in thoughts of consensual lust. Perhaps some part of you is still ashamed and reaches for what you’ve lost; you cannot keep grasping for the stars in the sky, expecting your hands to come back holding treasure, you must create your own happiness, embracing your own desires.

Even as you acknowledge that Igeyorhm’s presence beside you is not something you are averse to, you must push her way, regardless of your heart’s race and the fierce maelstrom she manipulates inside you.

“What of Lahabrea?” If he disapproves, feeling that you attempt to claim what is his, Lahabrea doubtless will make your existence miserable at any opportunity.

The words do not deter your companion at all; as if the flood has begun, she laughs softly onto your skin, her lips finally tasting yours with all the voracity of a child devouring a long-awaited treat. “What is mine is yours, Shemhazai.”

Dispelling any further doubts, Igeyorhm silences traitorous, distracting thoughts and unwanted communication by grasping your arms, holding them down at your sides. It is not the alluring touch of an experienced lover, of the gentle kindness of a devoted one; Igeyorhm is your master, possessive and commanding, your body hers to claim as she sees fit and she wishes to focus her attentions entirely upon you.

Only to her will you submit.

You meet her lips with your own, finally returning the kiss, tasting of her aether-formed flesh. Your breath mingles with hers as she rests her face in your neck. Igeyorhm releases one arm so that she may remove her concealing mask and lower her distracting hood; you are to know all of her without restriction, as she will you.

Igeyorhm’s features are neither delicate nor particularly feminine, with high cheekbones and a contrasting large jaw, but she has an aura and appearance as icy as Ysayle’s, her hair fine with eyes that match its blue, and lips pale, pink seemingly tinged with the same sleet of her hair and eyes.

She guides your free arm it into the nook of her lower back, so that you pull her down closely, breasts pressing into her, leg tangled; she is light, far lighter than the neutral form she wears would have you assume. Her hand plays at your hair, mingling the strands of yours and hers as she massages the back of your scalp with a light touch, no more than the tips of three fingers. The tease over sensitive flesh, sends warm shivers down your neck and back. You tilt your head back into her hand, melting in satisfaction.

In attempt to return the favor, you draw your free hand up as well, fingers circling in massage over the soft cloth that remains covering her back.

“No.” She is firm in her annoyance, pulling away from you so that she sits above your waist, hips resting on yours, again taking hold of your arm and pushing it down.

Her irritation at your insubordination is short lived and shallow, little more than a slap on the hand before she continues where she left off. Igeyorhm moves with a purposeful grace, removing the nightclothes you had not changed from, dragging the corners of soft cotton over your stomach and thighs, her lips trailing over the newly-exposed, lightly-scarred flesh from your neck and down your collarbone.

Ishgard’s mornings are cold, but you only feel heat as Igeyorhm’s mouth finds a nipple, tongue playing only at raised bump, letting her open lips flicker and taunt the areola before she sucks, sending warmth through your abdomen, a tightening tingle in your muscles that sends tremors throughout your body.

She stops at your shiver, lifting her head, as she allows the aether of her thighs to meld with yours, so that she experiences all you do, amplifying the already-powerful hormones that dictate a mortal form. The tingly warmth does not radiate from your core, but spreads throughout you as energy, flowing, lapping in your core and penetrating your arms and legs, through your stomach and breasts, down to your feet and over your face, a constant, moving tease of hot, flowing water.

Igeyorhm feels it too, her breaths no longer controlled, but released in soft, vulnerable gasps similar to your own, her body trembling atop yours.

In her position above you, she controls your movement, refusing to allow the instinctual grind of your thighs. You squirm under her strength, knowing full well you could break free if you chose to; Igeyorhm leaves you with just enough leniency to tempt, to seek to press against her command, knowing that when you are baited you will be sucked in by the far greater strength.

You allow yourself to fall into her trap, pulling your arms from hers, drawing your master close again so that she falls atop you.

Her weight never lands, the woman shedding her physical body entirely, revealing the dark mass of energy that is her true form. She spreads over you, clouding your vision and enveloping your skin. Igeyorhm’s touch is energy, electric and volatile, hot from lust and cold in nature, a contradiction of sensations that are impossible to comprehend simultaneously.

She dissipates completely, merging into your already-filled flesh, a fusion of aether in a container that already bursts at its seams.

Your lust is amplified so thoroughly by her essence that it hurts, as if all of your senses have been multiplied by an increased self-awareness and a second individual’s presence; you squirm instinctively, your thighs finally grinding together, barely able to resist the urge to immediately satisfy your shared body. Within you Igeyorhm is heavy; it is no longer the same flow you once shared, but two equal wills struggling for their place, far too close and not nearly close enough, any state of passive equilibrium you had when you encountered Lahabrea within her impossible to reobtain.

You burn as she settles, sweat slicking your flesh, tacky over the sheets of your bed. No longer directly struggling with you, her presence is calming, returning you to an enhanced state of arousal without pain. She gifts you with images, too many to understand, too ancient and varied to comprehend, accompanied by intense feelings - lust, anger, passion, apathy - that are not yours. It is different from the thoughts and memories imposed upon you by Him, different from any command that she has given you. They are emotions truly shared; all that is hers is yours.

Mind and body shared, she compels your hands down, a silent agreement between your will and hers. Your fingers draw up the sensitive skin between your thighs and mons, sending you back into the shivers; the warmth’s strength has dulled to a persistent pulse, no longer as sharp but far more persistent, matching the beat of your heart.

After long-awaited temptation, Igeyorhm all but controls you, impatient at your games, demanding you touch. Touch you do, over a wet clitoris, rubbing circular, clockwise, your muscles contracting fiercely, sensations absent from you for so long, seeking release well before you’re ready to finish. Your breaths quicken as you close your eyes, pressing down harder onto the soft bulb in vertical motion, focused on the spread of heat, spurred on by the foreign presence. You push Igeyorhm’s will down as best you can, hoping to draw the intimacy out longer rather than rush to completion, as she would have you do.

With your free hand, you cross your arm over your chest, cupping a soft breast, rolling your nipple between your thumb and index finger, tugging – at first softly then harder, imagining it is Igeyorhm’s sucking as you massage. Your thumb is her tongue, the pressure her lips.

The intensity of need increases and your body will not be denied any longer; it has been too long without release, without any pleasure at all. Your hips raise, begging for your finger’s firmer touch; you submit to its commands, pressing harder, rotating faster. Your muscles tense, your toes spreading and back arched, breaths released as quiet, gaspy moans as the pounding heat finally peaks, almost explosive in its power and control over you.

Igeyorhm does not leave you, even finished, reveling in shared satisfaction, embracing the remaining tingles that passively dissipate from your aether. Similar yet different, everything between you fits, a puzzle of aether and contrasting essence. Where Igeyorhm is up, you are down; where Igeyorhm is smooth you are coarse; where one is Light, the other is Dark.

You cannot help but feel that, despite your differences, this is how all was intended to be – a union between willful opposites, coexistence, without the struggle for dominance and control - of master and servant - without an eternal, chaotic wax and wane of power.

Perhaps it is Igeyorhm’s memories within you, but in your placidity everything becomes clear, as if a beacon has opened the way through the fog after a week without fresh food and clean water.

It has taken time, but you finally understand Lahabrea’s mockery in the Praetorium, his disdain for your single-minded viewpoint.

You can only wonder, after so long, _how could you have been so blind?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to keep Igeyorhm's description as canon as possible and based it upon 2.0's ending where you see her uncovered and 3.0 where you can see her features a bit better.
> 
> In case it isn't obvious where I'm going with this now that I've finally said it out right (hint: Igeyorhm calls the WoL a different name. . .), from now on I'm going to be doing some FFXII Scion referencing in a XIV context, which I feel is fair considering XIV is basically beating us over the head with the Scion of Light references already.


	4. Scions of Light and Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time for Rejoining rapidly approaches and, with the newfound freedom her dark crystal affords her, the former-Warrior of Light spends her remaining time aiding allies, old and new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See those tags? There's a variety of kink (and Lahabrea) in this chapter. I'm more bordering on porn with plot at this point, but I wouldn't consider it nearly as healthy and normal as the sex in the last chapter. It's also more Ascian-styled, description-heavy, and abstract. For those not interested in it, I'm going back to full plot next chapter.

Your body is broken.

It is the queerest sensation, to have your body fall apart around you; your muscles respond, but their strength is no longer tempered by your time adventuring, instead by the aether expended to sustain them. Your skin flecks, your nails crack, and your eyes and mouth are dry; the distance your crystal imposes upon you has far deeper effects than you initially recognized and you no longer spread throughout your entire body unless you focus intensely on doing so.

It is disgusting; there is an instinctual revulsion, previously not present when the dead were all you were capable of inhabiting, at the thought of existing within a corpse. You are trapped within a fading prison well beyond decay, but you refuse to leave; it is your body, the only one you want.

“Shemhazai?”

6th Wand interrupts your moment of self-absorbed weakness. The woman is as featureless as the other Lesser Ascians, but surprisingly gentle, stoic, and serene, calmly explaining her master’s purpose without the arrogance you’ve come to expect from Lahabrea’s servants. You recognize her façade; the woman is dangerous, just as much as you, her personality the result of a servant taking upon the traits of the master. The placidity reminds you uncannily of yourself under Hydaelyn, before Igeyorhm’s influence spread through you.

“I will consider your master’s proposal.” It is the best you can offer without speaking directly to Altima. Wand is nothing if not intelligent, using familiar methods in her arguments to appeal to you – and appeal she does, with moderation and temperance that are far more suited to your taste than Lahabrea’s brash ideals.

Wand does not appreciate your ambiguity, her master no doubt becoming increasingly impatient after approaching you multiple times, but before she can respond, the presence that has been silent, watching, hiding deeply in the shadows of the Library as you destroyed its guardians, lets itself be known. Igeyorhm steps directly into Wand’s view, her arms snaking around your waist in what can only be described as a display of possession. It is an unspoken and hostile message, from one master to another; Igeyorhm will not tolerate any attempts at drawing you away.

“It would be prudent to consider quickly.” 6th Wand’s tone does not change, the same pleasant restraint, but it is clear that she is just as annoyed at the interruption as Igeyorhm is about the interference, and the lesser leaves quickly, returning from whence she came.

“Altima wastes no time.” Igeyorhm keeps her tone neutral in her disapproval, but she does not remove her arms, one hand moving down your thigh, between your legs, alarming in her boldness, seeking to touch before she has even properly greeted you.

“Nor do you.” You are not particularly disinclined to her affections; she has been teasing you with her presence ever since you started your journey into the depths of Gubal, stroking and playing with your aether as you commanded it in battle, tainting it with her ice, the distractions almost leading you into harm on more than one occasion.

Igeyorhm is entertained by your response, seemingly pleased that your submission is no longer necessitated.

“You’ve been amusing yourself with the mortals again.” She whispers, close to your flesh, your hair billowing from her breaths. It is a strange topic; she has been previously apathetic about how you spend your free time.

There is no point in denying her the truth; she knows your purpose here, the tome remains in your sack, even now. You nod, and her hand on you waist finds its way under your top, running up and over your breast, the claws on her gloves trailing, teasing, refusing to touch beyond your areola, but promising more, fingers fluttering just outside the most sensitive regions.

“What do they seek?” Igeyorhm only deepens her touch once she asks, rolling your nipple slightly until you can no longer resist her completely, abdomen warming and vagina tingling, naturally lubricating; she takes your arousal as confirmation of your willingness to continue, her other hand slipping under your undergarments, but only just placing pressure on your clitoris – she will only continue if you provide her the answer she desires.

It is odd that she tests you in this way, with this game, rewarding you for answers rather than commanding them. “You know what they plan.” Your voice is breathier than intended, providing a question, rather than an answer.

“I would hear it from you.” She is insecure, you are certain. Igeyorhm worries that you will approach Altima and she will do everything within her power to stop you.

The blood in your veins chills and it is not from Igeyorhm’s aether; perhaps her fears are well founded, even with your tendency to hold your companions close within your heart.

“The Scions seek passage to Azys Lla, but need an aether-based tool to pierce its shields. Gubal has resources that will aid in its creation.” The effects of Igeyorhm’s touch are dulled at your whispery admission, a willing betrayal. “They will not make it in time.” As you finish speaking, you remove her hands from you, grasping them in between your own, missing her touch before it is even gone.

Igeyorhm offers more than pleasure; her touch should never be offered as a shallow reward for obedience.

Your lust changes, mutating in emotional turmoil. You turn to face Igeyorhm; she is to see _you,_ not the servant she has raised. Now that you’ve a crystal, you’re not only tool, but a creature with her own desires and will, eternally bound into service by His laws. You did not open your mind and body to Igeyorhm so that she can further control you.

Always submitting to a greater power, always loyal; from Warrior of Light to Servant of Darkness, nothing changes, an eternal dance – a dramatic theatre.

You are done with being only a tool.

You press close to Igeyorhm, guiding her - not permitting her to guide you - until her back is against one of the bare, dusty desks. Deep in the bowls of the Library, there is no one to find or judge you. There is no comfort here, no bed to relax on, no soft strokes over bare flesh, only smooth aged wood and false, aether-sustained forms.

You are not one to be passive; you will take your pleasure, it is only yours to control, not another’s.

Igeyorhm gives easily, willingly being pushed onto the desk below you, allowing you to encircle your arms around her neck, entwining your fingers through her hair under her hood as you pull it down. Your knowledge of her cool aether is second only to your familiarity with your own; she seems to absorb the heat of your body, of the very air around you, replacing it with a chill, driving you closer for warmth. You move atop her completely, spreading your legs over her hips, resting on your knees on the desk as your weight sits in her lap.

“You are magnificent.” She murmurs between kisses so fervent and cold that they burn as you pull off her mask, tossing it to the desk, forgotten as soon as it leaves her face. “Ravana, Bismarck, I could but admire. But now –“

You cut her off with your lips, understanding. Her body’s reaction differs entirely from when she commands, her breaths deeper and she leans fully into you, pulling you as closely as she can, breathing harshly into your neck. Your aether dances over her, warming her chill far more than she cools you. This is what she has wanted– what you have wanted – this show of power, the strength you’ve always had, but have been unable to demonstrate.

It is as liberating for you as it is alluring to her.

She shrugs off her outer cloak entirely as she falls back onto the desk, dust clouds billowing through the air around her as she exposes her body below you, open and vulnerable.

“Let me be with you, without this decaying vessel separating us.” She does not command, but request.

Even Igeyorhm recognizes that your body weakens; there is some shame in that, in your unwillingness to abandon a broken form well past its suitability, somehow like continuing to use a broken weapon just because you are fond of it. You do not respond, choosing instead to lean over her, meeting her eyes.

You find no beauty in her eyes or face, as she finds none in your breasts or hips; physical appearance is irrelevant when you have no true physical form. Her aether is beautiful, the way it dances beneath you, the skill she commands, and how it molds with yours, following, binding, almost as if worshipping. It is odd how easily you accept the foreign Ascian mentality, but to you, all that is Igeyorhm is aether – and she wants to see you, as you see her, unhindered by the form you wear.

“Like this.” She assumes your silence signifies confusion, still unable to comprehend your attachment to your body. Igeyorhm pulls at you softly, far more gently than she is normally prone to, dragging you from the walls of your body she attempts to guide you, as she always does.

You push her aether away, refusing aid. “I can’t.” Without your presence, your body will fall apart. You cling tightly, like a child to a favored toy, so worn and well-loved that it falls apart at its seams.

Finally understanding, she stops her tug, amusement tainting her voice. “I’ll care for your host, worry not.” To alleviate your concern, she presses her core aether into your form beside you with enough force that you’re almost pushed out, unprepared for her assault. It will do, you trust she can sustain it in your place, even if you lack the skill to.

Perhaps you should be frightened or uncomfortable; instead you feel nothing but relief as you leave your body, slipping out for the first time, the constant effort needed to maintain it finally eliminated. Finally unrestrained, you did not realize how much strength your body drew from you, how much mortal limitations hindered your capabilities.

The loss of direct senses somehow both blinds and frees you, direct sight impossible, but now somehow able to see anywhere. At first it seems no different than a precise, directed movement of a finger; if you wish to see, you spread, energy running over objects, recognizing their size, their shape, almost as quickly as your brain would process the messages your eyes send it, but with curiosity, you quickly realize that there are different methods of sight, sending out waves to paint a larger, direct picture of your surroundings, instantly receiving all of the sensations in your core. You are aware of everything, from sight to smell to temperature and even the pressure of foreign ambient aether, without truly perceiving it using any familiar sense.

Igeyorhm’s aether is no longer felt only as cool, sharp and electric. Igeyorhm is recognized simply as Igeyorhm; you distinguish her easily from the aether around you, controlled and precise, interacting only with you rather than the chaos of your surroundings.

This is how you were intended to touch her, to feel her true nature, not hindered behind the limitations of dead flesh.

No matter how fresh and fascinating, none of these experiences serve your purpose; limited as aetheric mass, you slowly congregate, focusing inwards. You know how it’s done, it’s easy, almost instinctual. It was alarming when you first witnessed Nabriales forming his body, but the surprise is replaced with a dull acknowledgment, of a natural understanding of exactly what you do without intending to do it, very much like breathing.

Knowledge of skeletal structure and muscles are unneeded; shape is all that is necessary. Countless layers of aether emulate tissue and organs; systems need not be emulated at all, driven by your natural circulatory flow. Sights, smells, tastes, sounds all normalize, comprehended no differently than your mortal form, but your exposed skin reacts to every movement and interaction of ambient aether, distracting and unpleasant. You understand why Ascians clothe themselves so thoroughly; uncovered as you are, you instinctively reach out, attempting to touch everything, to learn and manipulate your environment, requiring focus and strict control to stop yourself.

Your logic acknowledges that this is your true form now, even if your emotions still hold attachment to the host you use.

Finally prepared to continue, you return your attentions to your partner; Igeyorhm has disappeared, her discarded cloak and mask gone with her, as she fulfills her promise to keep your host stable. You touch her curiously inside your body, trying to draw her to you. She plays coy, acting very much the mouse to your cat, eluding any contact, refusing to leave unless you drag her out, but still she draws you in, wanting to feel, wanting to know, wanting to learn.

She cannot expect you to -

Gods, it is _wrong_. Igeyorhm cares not a lick about the morality of pleasing your own flesh and she uses you body’s hand to grasp at you, pulling you so that you again sit atop her. Your earlier confidence momentarily falters, but with your aether reacting to every bit of Igeyorhm, demanding you learn and caress her as she does the same to you, you find the idea not entirely abhorrent. It does not feel like you; it is her taste that spices the flesh beneath you, her aether running between your thighs, through your lips, molding under your fingertips; if she would speak, it would be in her voice. Appearance is irrelevant; it is Igeyorhm, no matter what form she wears.

It is very much a game, watching how she reacts as you run your finger over her arms, removing the remaining interfering clothes; it is an odd, distant sensation for you, nothing like the familiar erratic panting, the raw pulsing heat and trembles when Igeyorhm touched your body. In this form, emotions are driven by aether, not hormones, yet there is no logic in this act, no precision you’d expect from the lack of mortal weakness; aether is even more malleable than flesh, responding to your satisfaction, distributing waves of diluted yet dynamic arousal through you, cool and soothing rather than hot and tingling, like freshly pressed silk.

The barrier of flesh subdues Igeyorhm, limiting her ability to respond to your strokes, your kisses, your aether; she is yours to command, unable to stop you from influencing the desired response. You suck your body’s hot flesh, the salt of sweat from your adventures barely registering, letting your aether drag hard, pulling Igeyorhm so that she feels everything you do, not permitting her to focus on anything but you.

With flicks of aether, in and out, your tickle her neck; Igeyorhm rewards you with the response you seek, a violent tremor, causing goosepimples to ripple over her flesh. Again you try, over her lips, in and out, emphasized with a fluttering touch. It has an even more dramatic effect, and Igeyorhm releases a strangely shy, almost feminine breathy sound against your mouth that is thoroughly satisfying to have caused.

“You are cruel.” Igeyorhm pants before you can try again, exploring more sensitive locations, almost begging you to stop, your tease a foreign pleasure seemingly alien to her.

You almost pity her; even when she pleases you, there is no true teasing, just soft affection or utter dominance, moderation unknown. For once, there is something you can teach her.

You lift your face from hers, sitting up so that you have access to her entire body with your fingers. The manipulation of foreign aether is easier than the manipulation of your own, and Igeyorhm allows you access to hers easily as you draw, in and out, moving like a breath under your fingers, feeling the senses she does; you are warm, to her, temperate but not hot, a different heat than the heat of arousal, easy to distinguish.

As with when she pleased you, the warmth circulates through her, not localized in her abdomen, but spreading through her body. You draw it out too, holding it in you, not just sharing the feeling, but filtering the tingling, leaving Igeyorhm cold, allowing your own aether to amplify it, sending it right back in waves, far more powerful than the pleasure was initially.

Again and again you tease, removing and reintroducing the localized sensations, replacing it in a different region, never letting her breaths equalize, taunting her, emphasizing the pulse in her breasts, sucking, nibbling, rolling – but never staying too long, never giving her the comfort and consistency she desires.

You know your touch has its intended effect when Igeyorhm’s back arches slightly, her hand snaking its way down in order to finish what you’ve started, but have only denied. No, it is not time – you are not done yet; you grasp her hand before she can rub, holding her second arm down as well, as she does to you.

“Patience. You mustn’t be hasty.” You are aware that pushing for patience in the other woman is akin to asking the moon to stop its cycle, but today, and in the future, you are in control. She will listen, if you demand it.

Igeyorhm seems appalled by your command, as if you are denying her direct request for pleasure. She has made progress, but still she does not understand; you lift her hand to your mouth for a kiss, a silent promise that you will give her all she wants and more.

The motion does not seem to satisfy her, only instantaneous pleasure will, and Igeyorhm’s lips press together, her thoughts unreadable. Without warning, Igeyorhm’s aether elevates, wrapping around her, withdrawing as she teleports away, leaving you alone, aroused, and unblinking in the depths of Gubal.

Her reaction is odd, certainly unwarranted and entirely unexpected. Uncharacteristic awkwardness overwhelms you, reminiscent of propositioning an attractive partner and being publically rejected. You would not have thought her capable of such absurdity.

To your utmost, emphatic dismay, Igeyorhm’s reason for leaving becomes clear within no more than a minute.

It is convenient, far too convenient.   Igeyorhm is planning something at your expense, be it out of revenge, curiosity, or whatever nonsensical ideas she has floating in her head that you refuse to consider. She must have summoned him, there is no other explanation for his knowledge of your presence, if he even knew you were here at all.

It is the first time Lahabrea has violated your unspoken, but mutually understood pact of non-intervention, his aether humming with barely-hidden hostility.

Despite his demeanor, Lahabrea remains professional, keeping his eyes raised and focused away from your nudity, not even expressing surprise at it. He is well aware of the intimacy in your relationship with Igeyorhm, as you are aware of his; his arrival may have been instigated by Igeyorhm, but it is not her that he approaches you about.

“You overstep your boundaries, speaking with that servant.” Lahabrea accuses; he probes, hoping for you to unintentionally slip, exposing hidden knowledge – you know his game well enough.

“Nothing I do will hinder us.” You are cautious; now knowing what he seeks from you, it is easier to control the conversation. Lahabrea is provoking you, no need to fan his flame. Even without your reassurance, Lahabrea must be well aware that His laws prevent your direct interference. It was one of the very first lessons Igeyorhm taught you, the one you know above all others. “What I do with my time is not your concern.”

“It is my concern when you meddle with Altima.” You cannot help but be annoyed that Igeyorhm did not finish this confrontation herself, instead drawing Lahabrea into a personal matter. “You were not raised so that you would act out on your own.”

He’s being ridiculous in his paranoia; you’ve not even met with Altima, only spoken with her servants. You still have the advantage; he knows you’ve been in some distant form of communication, but does not realize the lack of depth to it. “You assume too much. I’ve not agreed to any alliance.”

_Not yet._

“If you were of mind to reject her, you already would have.” For the first time since his arrival, you hesitate, recognizing that Lahabrea is not entirely wrong. You have no way to counter that short of outright lying.

He notes your hesitation, baring down, drawing close, as is his way, to pressure you into an admission - to finish this nonsense before it can even truly start. It only makes you want to do the opposite; you do not belong to him, he has no place in making decisions for you.

“Her interest compromises _our_ purpose.” He continues, so close that you can taste him, his assumption only adding to the depths of your anger, any conversation with words finished.

Lahabrea must know that you are not intimidated; he can no longer bind you. You are weaker, yes, and less skilled, but perhaps not so innately inferior, especially now that you are no longer limited by your body.

There is a change as the thoughts pass through you, subtle at first, barely recognizable for what it is. Your anger is not soothed, but altered, mutated by a foreign influence. The harsh edges smoothed, replaced with –

It’s horrifying, you refuse to even acknowledge it as more than a stray musing at the back of your mind. It remains persistent, pulsing through you even as you reject it, until ignoring the intrusion is impossible.

 _All that is hers is yours –_ Igeyorhm gifts you with memories, emotions, and heat, injected and thoroughly absorbed within you as if they were yours to begin with.

You are certain she does the same to Lahabrea, as he stops his onslaught as instantaneously as you halt your rigid defense, his breaths rapid, his chest heaving against yours. Undoubtedly, Igeyorhm must be terribly satisfied with herself, pleased at how easily she can manipulate the both of you into emotions neither of you have any interest in experiencing.

It is a curious thing, this desire for Lahabrea. Logically, your mind rejects it, recognizing the thoughts are not yours and that you’ve no interest in him, but your aether refuses rationality, as disobedient as a mortal body in the heat of passion. You touch, mingling, clinging, sticky like sap, refusing to leave once it has dried on your flesh. Even when you are capable of pulling away, Lahabrea holds you tightly and it is the same within you, unintentionally denying him freedom, commanding him to stay and merge yet more, a tangled, integrated mass, melting together as thoroughly as wax.

It’s doubtless that you both serve Igeyorhm’s goals well, antagonism temporarily put aside as you attempt to unravel this mess of hers, but still she pushes harder, not satisfied with such limited results. You can feel her now, close, but not materialized, split between the both of you, slinking deeper and deeper into you.

It is no longer simple lust; it is nothing like your desire for Igeyorhm, the desire for touch and companionship. You breathe heavily now, warmed at the fantasy of Lahabrea on the ground below you, ashamed at his weakness and squirming, begging for more, with it in your power to give and take what you please.

You know he wishes all the same for you, the emotions shared fiercely, amplifying as they transfer through the web connecting you.

The image of his submission, the desire for his acceptance of your superiority, neither are Igeyorhm’s memories; you are beyond her influence now. You are not even certain it is Lahabrea’s emotions having an effect on you. After so long living under the shadow of his actions, it is fully within your power to take control. You will not lose this chance.

It is, perhaps, the first time both you and Lahabrea are in complete agreement.

In sync you begin, opposite but identical goals of domination and subjugation. It is almost bestial, physical and ruthless; he pushes at you, you push at him, struggling against each other with only your bodies, grasping at each other’s arms, holding tightly around his waist. It is nothing like wrestling, there is no rolling about the floor or beating, but nor is it not a subtle struggle of physical and mental strength, the results so intense that Igeyorhm could not hinder you, even if she was of mind to.

It comes as no surprise that Lahabrea overpowers you with his aether, but you immediately recognize the situation favors you. You’ve been an adventurer – you still act as one – in your mortal body, you must evade and endure, requiring the agility and strength that Lahabrea has neglected to develop when forming himself. It was not an intentional advantage you considered when creating your aether-flesh, but it exists nonetheless. Without it, you will succumb, the result entirely unacceptable.

You claw, your fingers digging into his robes as deeply as his aether digs into your flesh, using your greater strength to push him down. A snarl, followed by a wordless growl, the source impossible to determine sounds through your core; recognizing his disadvantage as quickly as you do, Lahabrea pushes harder. There is no intent to maim or kill; his aether spreads over you, enveloping you entirely until your senses are dulled, until all you see is black and red, until you are filled only with him. Lahabrea attempts to unmake your form, to unravel the muscles you’ve created by placing himself between them, to melt you, limiting your movement and thoughts, to place you entirely under his command.

He is deep inside you now, as you press him even harder to the ground, holding his arms down. He squirms, Gods _he squirms_ , your fantasy an alluring reality, his legs and waist shifting below you, unable to remove your heavier weight. His hands grasp futilely at your wrists; you grasp them back, holding them tightly. The pressure of his aether pushes you down, closer, so that you fall on top of him, unable to stay upright any longer. But still you hold him down, denying him freedom, denying him any control, denying him all of his goals by your form’s refusal to bend under his power.

You have no excuse; you can’t twist logic to justify your actions this time. You take Lahabrea because his body below you makes your aether fiercely uncontrollable in a way that Igeyorhm’s touch can never match.

Nothing you do in the future will match this. Your thoughts are his; _all_ that is Igeyorhm’s is yours – you belong to Lahabrea as much as he belongs to you. You recognize his anger at his limitations, a weakness he can do nothing to alleviate with you as deeply inside him as he is in you. He recognizes your arousal; it drives him deeper, deeper, so deeply that there is nothing that distinguishes you from Lahabrea. You are a singular mass of rage and desire, unity filling an emptiness within that you were not aware you even held.

Your lust is an individual beast, untamable, undeniable, but still you come to a mutual, hesitantly submissive understanding in a shared mind, a stable compromise of two creatures, determined and far too stubborn to give in to one another individually: if you wish to have Igeyorhm, it must be shared; you cannot have one without the other.

Your body falters, Lahabrea’s shared aether finally tearing you apart, a painless, controlled breakdown and a decisive victory, one that comes too late to matter. You remain within him, bodiless, attached to his flesh, circulating around and through, unable to distance yourself entirely. The connection between you is literal and you rely on his cool flesh and thoughts to ease your focus on your surroundings.

Igeyorhm has succeeded thoroughly, the web between you permanently entwined, impossible to completely detangle.

While you and Lahabrea struggled for supremacy, Igeyorhm rematerialized, her presence clear now that you’ve calmed and your focus is no longer intently on each other. You turn to her, but are greeted with the most alarming sight. The other woman remains in your body, laying horizontally on the same desk you held her over earlier, her legs spread, one over each side, her chest heaving, her skin shining, covered in sweat, her arm over her abdomen, rubbing fiercely, her back arched, mouth open slightly, finishing the pleasure you earlier stopped as she watches the two of you.

Everything becomes clear for Lahabrea as quickly as it does you, but her visage evokes different emotions from the male, visions of your body below him, as his was below you just a moment ago – just as you were atop Igeyorhm, before Lahabrea arrived. It is impossible to disagree with his desire, your vivid memories unintentionally shared, spurring him into action.

“I’ve been waiting for you to finish.” She pants softly, eyes glazed as she looks over you; she does not address you individually, it would not be right to do so.

Your shared aether is erratic, Igeyorhm appealing to you in ways she never has before, Lahabrea’s fantasies influencing yours. As tempting as she is, you urge Lahabrea not to proceed with haste; just as how you forced him down, you will be at a disadvantage if you approach your host with the goal of submission. In it, Igeyorhm is stronger and heavier, your body made of tempered flesh and not aether; unless she wishes to rest under you, she will not do so.

It is not possible to get closer than you are with Lahabrea; Igeyorhm has no interest in trying to join with you, or pull you apart. Instead, the woman employs a familiar strategy, running fingers over you, her aether tugging, probing repeatedly in and out, sending flickering jolts of ice through the heat, frigid and shocking, like an unexpected snowstorm after a night near a warm fire. Lahabrea releases a thorough tremor, every part of him shivering, shaking; he is expressive, reacting thoroughly, unlike the more subdued and localized reactions of Igeyorhm and your own. It is more than the simple amplification of feeling between you, not just an echo chamber of aetheric reaction, it is a difference in his nature, volatile and explosive.

He withdraws deeply into you, giving you full control, immediately disquieted at Igeyorhm’s curious and not-quite-successful attempt to emulate your earlier teasing. Lahabrea does not understand, even with your knowledge. This is not affection, the touch is almost violent in intensity and does not directly further his desire; erratic teasing of this type is unfamiliar and unexpected, traits he dislikes immensely, his mood souring when he does not receive what he seeks.

You cannot but be amused, thoughts seeping into Lahabrea, softening his overall distaste. It is almost innocent, and just as sad as when Igeyorhm did not understand your experimentation. No matter Lahabrea’s displeasure, you are satisfied that Igeyorhm has taken well to the methods you imparted on her. Lahabrea will come to enjoy it, too, in time, once he understands such teasing is not intended as cruel.

You and Igeyorhm work to coax him to calmness through more traditional strokes, the ones Igeyorhm taught you, the ones you felt Lahabrea use on her. She is gentle in her use of persistent pressure, flowing through thickened, cooling magma, breaking the bonds between you and Lahabrea, but creating new ones, adding complexity and stability, demanding calmness of a previously-boiling inferno, before moving on, cooling your entire form, pleasant and short-term, like a dip in a river on a broiling day.

It is, just barely, enough to stop Lahabrea’s sulking and to have him assist you in touching Igeyorhm in return, melting the crystalline barrier she has created between herself and your host –

It is apparent immediately that she is struggling; it is a sign of her absolute pride and strength that she does not express her weakness, or request your aid, but she suffers from the same instinctual revulsion from your host’s slow decay that you do, weakened by the need to sate its constant thirst for aether. Lahabrea’s reaction is instantaneous and surprising; completely in agreement with your plans, he draws Igeyorhm possessively, enveloping her, letting your shared aether spread around as a buffer, pulling her within you, replacing her presence with his.

It is most unexpected for the independent and haughty Lahabrea to act in a supportive manner, but Igeyorhm does not share your surprise, instead filling in holes that seemed to have been carved specifically for her, the final piece of the puzzle.

There is no final goal to this union, no furthered intensity, no shivers, no heat, no teasing. Sharing an existence with another is overwhelming but tolerable; sharing with two is all-encompassing, entrancing your focus entirely. It is not directly pleasure, but comfortable satisfaction and completeness. All of your troubles and worries are irrelevant, a muted, temporary passiveness, reminiscent of the post-coital simplicity where all that matters is your partner – all that matters is unity.

You return to the Scions that night, uncomfortable, disheveled, disjointed, and empty, sharing with them the tome Matoya sought, to their eager smiles and rare expressions of hope, knowing you’ve made a terrible mistake. You are tied to Igeyorhm – to Lahabrea – now; it is different than before, no longer an unwilling servant to a master, you’ve done this on your will, with the two individuals you cannot continue to support. They are rash; you cannot fault them for their loyalty, but what they plan, their methods – you will never agree with them.

Hindering Lahabrea and Igeyorhm with Altima is now out of the question.

Your troubles will only worsen from here, you are certain; there is no happy ending that can come of this tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altima is not an OC, she is seen speaking with Elidibus in 2.3 with the others. I'm assuming she is female based upon her being a woman in FFXII; XIV has remained somewhat loyal to XII in this regard, so I don't believe they will change her sex.  
> 6th Wand, however, is. Don't worry, Wand only has this tiny role.


	5. Shemhazai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With independence comes the ability to make choices; sometimes determining the right path is murky, almost impossible - other times, your goal is so clear that you can take a step without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has enjoyed my little self-indulgent experiment. In true XIV fashion, I have also added an epilogue, so be sure to check out chapter 6 as well.

Through the shrouded haze of snowfall, hidden behind a veil of unbroken grey, someone watches you.

The invader, a distant, male, foreign presence who does not even bother concealing his curiosity as he keeps himself hidden, focuses intensely on you while desperately feigning apathy, evading any of your efforts to locate him. It is a fierce contradiction that only secures his guilt.

He is gentle and makes no attempt to harass you, but his prolonged presence grates at your already-frayed nerves, unconsciously setting you on edge. You’ve a duty to the Scions, to aid them one final time as they enter Azys Lla, you cannot be amusing a meddling ally as well.

Sensing your agitation in the way you return his touches, the presence finally relents, darkness congregating on the lonely bridge beside you before forming into robes, as pale as an unmarred snowfield.

Elidibus offers you a formal greeting, respectful and distant in his native tongue, testing you. You habitually and confidently engage in his dance, answering his greeting with identical formality, making certain he recognizes your equality, not your subservience. Elidibus is the last individual you wished to encounter.

“How unexpected.” Again he runs his aether over you, no longer evasive. Elidibus keeps his tone neutral, almost pleasant, it is only through his persistent touches does he indicate his surprise. After what he initiated in La Noscea, planning for you to witness the Sahagin Elder’s transformation as a demonstration of the Echo’s power, he doubtless expected this transition, if not quite so soon. “You are with Lahabrea?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Let him read what he will from that, it is true in only the vaguest sense; Elidibus is obligated to nothing, least of all knowledge of your allegiances.

“Let us not lead each other false; we are both aware that Lahabrea is. . .difficult.” The gentle tone continues even as he chides you. He is blunt, alarmingly so, speaking with the assumption of your agreement, even before you’ve discussed any alternative viewpoints. Perhaps he judges you rightly; you’ve an unpleasant history with Lahabrea, more so than even Elidibus can know. “He is a skilled leader and thoroughly convincing when he chooses to be, but he does not serve as we do.”

It is a side of Lahabrea that you are not familiar with, but he has been successful, retaining allies and pursuing his goals relentlessly, so there must be some truth to it.

He makes no mention of Igeyorhm, be it because he mistakenly believes she is irrelevant or is under the misguided impression that you served under Lahabrea. Altima learned of you, yet Elidibus did not; something rings oddly of this, even with Elidibus’ call for honesty.

Elidibus takes your silence as agreement, continuing.

“Have you agreed to Lahabrea’s plan?” You shake your head, cautiously; the recklessness of his plan is why you sought an alternative when Altima approached you. “Nor have I. Nor have the others. Lahabrea works only to benefit his own cause. Well-meaning or no, this –“ he motions to the changing, unbalanced aether in the air, instigated by the subject of your conversation. “- is not what He intends.”

 _Lahabrea is rogue_. It’s a startling revelation and the reason for Igeyorhm’s and Lahabrea’s anger at your communication with Atima’s servant becomes clear. They have been using you, as you’ve known, but they have manipulated you as well, leading you to believe theirs is the only true path, that the others are misguided in their beliefs, weak in their refusal to act immediately.

You press your lips together; you expected honesty, for the truth to be revealed, not concealed. Your foundations are shaken, what you thought you knew is a lie; His truth is the only one you know now, all else unstable.

With the admission of distaste for Lahabrea’s plans, you now understand why Elidibus does not dawdle, his bluntness representative of desperation and haste. That he approaches you, an individual he does not even know he can trust, proves the lengths the man is willing to go; time is running out and he cannot act on his own.

No, you’re mistaken; Elidibus is not that soft. You are expendable. Elidibus believes you are Lahabrea’s follower, or at least that you have been influenced by him. Losing one as inexperienced, young, and malleable as you would not impact Elidibus, but it may hinder Lahabrea. Elidibus has no power over you; when you formed your crystal, Igeyorhm claimed it was neither fate nor destiny that led you to your position, but your own power. You are nothing but a feral beast he seeks to bind to his will, wild and untamed.

“It is to our mutual benefit to continue as He wills, denying Lahabrea’s vision.” Elidibus concludes his argument.

“You seem to believe that I will not immediately return to Lahabrea.” Even if you agree with him, it is clear Elidibus approaches so that he may divine your intentions and, if they are compatible with his, use you to see his will through.  “What reason do I have to aid you?”

You will not be used, not by Lahabrea, not by Elidibus.

“You are a rational creature, you know what is at stake.” Elidibus pointedly turns from you, his gaze sweeping over the Scions below you at the airship dock, your weakness exploited to the world. He knows, just as you do, that you have no choice but to assist; the lives of your friends depend on it. “Words will not sway Lahabrea, do not doubt that I have tried. Unfortunately, there is no hero to banish him this time.” He does not seem to be mocking you, but you his manner is constantly passive and it is impossible to discern his true thoughts.

As much as you dislike Lahabrea’s mannerisms, at least he is blunt, his expectations blatantly stated, his goals exposed to those he deems allies; Elidibus is a mystery, dangerous, his intentions shrouded even as he layers you with flattery. You are loathe to admit it, but you would far sooner trust Lahabrea than Elidibus. “What do you propose?” You ask, bitterly, misliking how he toys with you.

“I speak with His voice, so that the laws are upheld: for the benefit of all who serve, you _will_ stop Lahabrea.” It is not a proposal, it is not an agreement, it is a command, spoken under His name, demanding your subservience.

He is no longer dancing around what he expects from you; if words will not work, force is required. You still do not like it, the command he has forced upon you. “You ask the impossible.” Even if you are able raise a hand against him with Elidibus’ command, you cannot ‘stop’ Lahabrea any more than he can stop you. You can banish him at most.

Again Elidibus tilts his head to the side, looking down to the Scions, who have stopped their fretting and fussing over the airship, with a new addition – even from a distance you recognize Urianger as he converses with Y’shtola, as unchanging as ever, his consistency welcome. Elidibus turns back to you again, meeting your eyes, severe, far less pleasant than when he first greeted you.

“You’re resourceful, you’ll find a way to see His will through.” His words send a chill through you.

The conversation is over, there is nothing more to say. He offers you a formal, but far less distant, touch, one that is almost affectionate, as a farewell, leaving you alone in the chill to see your ‘agreement’ through.

Not even the muffled, peaceful silence of snowfall can smooth the edge off your anxiety, but the sight of an old friend fills you with enough warmth to place a smile on your face as you walk the long path down onto the landing to where the Scions continue to converse privately.

“. . .’Twas but blind chance or providence that I did spy it, hidden among Moenbryda’s last effects.” Urianger speaks. He holds a large item before Y’shtola, only turning to you once he senses your presence. You offer a smile and nod in return to his greeting, looking down to the topic of their conversation.

It is a coincidence.

No, this is beyond coincidence, this is an impossibility. Your mouth replies with a soft, distant grunt of recognition, but your mind races, wondering how his timing can be so perfect, and, more importantly, _does he know?_

Urianger notices your intense focus on the auracite, holding it out before you. You lift it from his hand and he continues, his words little more than an endless droning buzz in your discomfort. Somehow, the powers of the auracite seem much more abhorrent than when you first wielded one against Nabriales. You would hesitate to use it, even against Lahabrea.

You push the item deeply in your sack and out of your mind, finally able to focus on the ever-professional Urianger as he finishes his speech. “...Pray, give me your pledge that you will strike them down and avenge our fallen comrade.”

You move quickly to agree, but it is little more than an obligated, instinctual response, the sounds refusing to form on your tongue. Blaming Moenbryda’s death on Lahabrea and Igeyorhm is no different than condemning you for it. They are not guilty simply because they are Ascian; you are even more at fault than they, in your inability to destroy Nabriales on your own. You cannot make that pledge.

Urianger senses your hesitation, recognizing its strangeness. The insecurity is not like you; you’ve made a mistake, Urianger has not seen you since Ul’dah. He would not heave experienced the slow change in your mannerisms, a shift towards caution that started well before Igeyorhm took you.

Your worst fears have come to pass as Urianger questions you wordlessly, his gaze intense. You try to give him a smile, to show him the security and confidence he expects, but it is too late. He sees what Y’shtola does with his Sharlayan tool, how the flow of your aether has changed, how much effort it takes to keep yourself standing, let alone whole.

Time slows to a crawl and you see every bit of Urianger’s reaction, from surprise, to the clench of his jaw. As if finally understanding, he looks to the ground at your feet where, even in the limited sunlight, the truth is bared to all.

“You are an Ascian. How?” Urianger’s tone is surprisingly apathetic as he condemns you, more curiosity than anger, as if he is more interested in how such a thing could have happened rather than caring that it happened it at all. It is an odd reaction, even from him.

“What–?“ Y’shtola interrupts in confusion, but you see her mind working, the cogs rotating, quickly putting the missing pieces together, fitting them perfectly to her queries. When she speaks, it is fully in condemnation, lacking any of the inquisitiveness Urianger’s words contained. You have lied to Y’shtola and Alphinaud more than anyone; her anger is justified. “You’ve been on your own, these last moons, detached. Whatever it was that plagued you, it seemed you wanted to face it without us.” Her tone is a strange mix of disgust and bafflement, emotions saturating her words. “I thought ‘twas Ul’dah that laid heavily on your heart.”

Y’shtola’s unspoken ‘I was wrong.’ pierces you, your deception more successful than you ever imaged.

“I’m sorry.” There is no other response, you’ve no excuses. Once you gained your freedom you did not turn your back on Igeyorhm, even when it was well within your power to do so; they can never understand the curse of the Echo that bound you, first to Igeyorhm, then to Him.

Urianger remains blessedly silent, deeply in thought; facing the other woman is difficult enough without his interjection.

The Scion bares down, your apology shallow, barely washing over her. “Are you even the one we called ‘Warrior of Light,’ or are you just using her body?”

Y’shtola should not ask questions that she does not want the answer to. You are Shemhazai and you are not ashamed. Apologetic as you are for your betrayals, no one would rise from the flames that consumed you unaltered; you cannot change who you are.

“Is that why you’ve done nothing but make excuses, delaying our every action?” She is exasperated at your silence. You absorb it all with stoicism, letting her anger explode, a cathartic release that will allow her to focus on responsibility rather than you. “If you are truly our companion, why didn’t you tell us?”

“There are laws.” It is a true answer, but one she is not satisfied by. You understand her skepticism, the reason sounds equally empty to your ears.

Before Y’shtola can continue her tirade, Urianger interrupts, open-minded and pragmatic. “If she remains an ally, we should learn aught we can.” Even with his desire for knowledge, Urianger does not promote trust, nor does he attempt to calm Y’shtola.

They are right to be upset, but concentrating on anger will only slow them down; you are little more than a distraction. It is regrettable that the truth was revealed right before they attempt an assault on Azys Lla, but also intensely relieving. No longer must you hide; no longer must the burden of your lies drown you. “I offer no excuses.” You speak to Y’shtola, before turning to Urianger. “Nor do I offer information.”

You promise them nothing. Anything more would prove Igeyorhm’s accusations correct, that the Scions are nothing but toys for you to amuse yourself with while you play at being mortal. You offer them only honesty – and honesty demands silence, not empty promises and temptation.

You cannot allow this to continue, the constant demand for answers, the condemnations, the aggression. Time is running out, for them and for you; they do not understand how close Lahabrea’s plan is to fruition. “I ask that you judge me by my actions, not by what I’ve become.”

That will do; you’ve no time to be dawdling when no words will satisfy Y’shtola, to numb the pain she feels.

“Please wait, just a little longer. I will end this - watch over everyone for me.”

Everything is over.

You are not a martyr, you’ve no intentions of failing or being banished, but your body will not last. Soon, the last vestiges of the Warrior of Light will have faded and your relationship with the Scions will be changed forever.

Will they still accept you, knowing what you are - knowing that you must use an innocent as a host to maintain your presence and interact with the mortal realm? Or will they try to study you, probing you apart like they did Lahabrea’s dark crystal, claiming it to be for the greater good?

In the Praetorium, Lahabrea mocked you, demanding you choose between doing your duty and saving your friendship. It was only through Hydaelyn’s aid that you were able to succeed at both.

You chose duty, then, to resonate, to challenge Lahabrea within Thancred’s soul, an act that, with your inexperience, could have torn Thancred apart. You did not hesitate when facing a friend; you do not doubt that, if the situation necessitates it, the Scions will do the same.

So must you choose duty once again - but your duty is not to Elidibus.

It is not an epiphany; you’ve known what you must do all along, you’ve simply taken the beaten path, a long, twisting trail before finally rejoining the main road.

You must shatter your fragile peace with Lahabrea, tangled web unraveling only as you both finally admit its existence. You must break your ties with Igeyorhm; you’ve an eternity to remake them, deeper and more powerful than before, in a relationship more than lust, more than being a tool. They have used you, manipulated you, but that is secondary; they have opened themselves as well, your bond is mutual, neither one-sided nor shallow. Even as you stop them, pursuing the future you wish to create, it is for them that you fight, just as much as for the Scions.

Through your agreement, with Elidibus’ command invoking His voice, you no longer are bound by the laws of non-intervention, but Void take the man and his desire for you to eliminate Lahabrea.

Overcoming the pale, overcast sky and pushing through the foggy depths of turmoil, everything becomes clear; you withdraw from the landing - from the Scions, from your friends - knowing where you must go, the muted clouds turning green and yellow, electric and unstable. You thank Igeyorhm for her foresight in leading you to this place.

It is a fine balance, still following Elidibus’ command, submitting to His laws, ‘stopping’ Lahabrea. Your method requires stretching His laws to their limits, twisting your logic as you twist your words to escape the chains that bind, just as Lahabrea similarly uses his loyalty as justification to further his purpose. As mortal laws prevent the wanton murder of citizens in the streets, so do His laws limit you; you cannot attack or kill a neutral individual outside self-defense. The solution to the dilemma comes immediately and from a most unexpected source, or, perhaps, the only source you know; Nabriales provoked Moenbryda – and you - to attack him. He barely had to work at it at all; you do not expect your charge to be so easy, but with proper provocation they _will_ attack you, as they have before.

There is no other way; you enter the reactor with your head held high. You can have no regrets.

“Warrior of Light?” The man has the gall to be surprised at your presence.

“Archbishop.” Lahabrea’s toys, the lot of them; they even move together, predictable, as if they are of one mind, like a mammet controlled by a puppeteer. For all Igeyorhm mocks you for your interest in the Scions, Lahabrea acts no differently, his efforts entirely focused around mortals.

No matter the abilities Lahabrea has imparted upon the Elezen, you banished Ravana and Bismarck of your own skill, without Her Blessing; they will be defeated the same way. It is liberating, to be without fear. You’ve nothing left to lose.

You smile; the game begins.

For the lives taken by Ysayle’s thousand-year struggle; for Haurchefant; for the Scions; for the poor, broken Warrior of Light who fell, lost to her Goddess – _you will end him_.

One by one they fall, Lahabrea’s pets unable to stand against you, slow and predictable. They spout nonsense; justice, light, power, pretentiousness brought upon by their own delusion. As one who knows true light and true darkness, you expose their words as empty. They slide over you, like oil and water, their condemnations barely registering as little more than basal rants in your attempt to keep yourself whole, dodging their attacks and shielding yourself, sustaining your body as long as possible as it breaks down around you, unable to withstand the transfer of such large quantities of aether.

Fall they do, without exception, in screams of anger and disbelief, aether fading into ambiance. So, too, do you fall, the remains of your body breaking apart in unbearable agony, the muscles tearing and spraining, your organs burning, your lungs collapsing, your flesh fading. You withdraw, escaping the prison one final time, its grand farewell complete.

You do not get far in your attempted departure, your return to the Void hindered by a force so subtle and efficient that you did not even sense it. A rigid wall pushes at you from all sides, so tightly that the molding of your aether is severely limited and movement is impossible. The force is intensely claustrophobic and painfully limiting, like a band on your arm that digs in far too tightly, pulsing and tingling, but overwhelming your entire existence.

 _No_. True terror fills you, a pit so deep and black that you almost believe you cannibalize yourself.

“Millennia of planning, wasted.” Elidibus voice rings, the first time you’ve heard anger from him. “What a shame. He has molded you well, feigning obedience while pursuing your own goals.”

You do not breathe in this form, but you pulse rapidly in your panic. You cannot even reply to him, trapped so thoroughly that you act only at the man’s mercy. You have defied him, challenged his will, as did Lahabrea, it was foolish to believe you would come out unharmed. Elidibus continues, passively aggressive, somehow constricting the object that binds you yet further. “Until Lahabrea is managed, I cannot have another force meddling on his behalf.”

You knew the traitor was going to use you; you struggle, futile though it may be, against the strange binds, desperation overcoming logic as you ignore the rest of what Elidibus says. His intent is clear.

Your senses dim. There is nothing but still blackness, with no sense of the world outside; whatever object hosts you could be moving and you wouldn’t know of it. Even your thoughts slow, numbed along with the pain, as if you’ve been heavily drugged and are slowly fading from consciousness.

It does not matter. If Elidibus must seal you like this, you know you’ve succeeded. You’ve protected the Scions and your allies are safe; you will make the rest up to Igeyorhm later. The thought of her touch is all that warms you in your empty, frigid prison, pleasant, like the remnants of a forgotten dream.

Utter darkness weighs in, the abyssal depths of which you only previously encountered when you were taken by Zodiark. It embraces and entombs, flooding your remaining senses, washing you away in its wake. There is no more pain; there is no more fear.

For the first time since your death you can truly rest, without the feigned sleep induced passively by nothingness, knowing there is hope for the future.


	6. Epilogue: Antithesis

“What a prideful creature -” Altima runs a hand over the delicate, floating crystal, flawlessly smooth, with sides rigid and sharp enough to rend flesh at the slightest contact; Altima's blood smears over it, dripping slowly down in long, elegant, streaks. Foreign aether, intensely darker than Altima’s own, dances and flows just below its surface; awakened by the taste of blood, it begs for release. “- to challenge Elidibus on your own.” Elidibus has not harmed her; Shemhazai remains passive, sealed in perpetual slumber until he decides to free her.

Altima is not one for waiting, not when the others scramble as furiously as rodents at her feet, nibbling away, engorging themselves on Her decay.

Shemhazai is not what Altima expects from Igeyorhm’s former servant; absent is Igeyorhm’s cool rationality, favoring manipulations over Lahabrea’s force. She is barely Igeyorhm’s at all, the reason for the forbidden relationship between master and servant clear. Lahabrea’s influence saturates deeply; he was the true master, revealed only with Shemhazai’s soul bared before all.

Only time will tell if she has inherited his tenacity as well as his arrogance.

Altima recognizes her blunder; if she had not hesitated and glanced away, leaving Shemhazai to her own devices, this would have been prevented. Elidibus, too, has blundered; he has hidden her, secluded in the infinite depths where few dare venture, but not deeply enough.

Now Shemhazai is hers, an invaluable ally, Altima’s blunder mendable.

“I know you can hear me, dear Shemhazai. I cannot allow you to rest just yet, there is much work to be done.” The crystal cracks under Altima’s sticky, blood-stained fingers, unable to withstand the overwhelming pressure from within and without. “We will bring about the change the others are incapable of.”

 


End file.
